As I Shall Laugh
by Signy1
Summary: Post-series. Some men are just gluttons for punishment; Newkirk stayed in the service... and in the spy business. He's good at what he does, and he's done a lot of good. But everyone's luck runs out eventually. Dead heroes sometimes rate a statue in the park, but that isn't much consolation for anyone concerned. (Re-titled, formerly If The Sun Don't Come.)
1. Chapter 1

March, 1969

The small café had outdoor seating, and the two men nursing their coffee were making no particular effort to hide the fact that, if the weather had not been unseasonably pleasant, they would probably have left at least half an hour before. The coffee wasn't _that_ good.

But it was a warm, sunshiny afternoon and neither of them had anywhere pressing to be, nor anything more important to do than enjoy their own company, and they were taking full advantage of that fact. They'd already covered some of the more earthshatteringly important conversational topics, which involved a great many snapshots of children in various locations, the detailed recounting of letters and/or telephone calls from the more far-flung of their social circle, old jokes and reminiscences that had been dragged from the dusty wardrobes of memory only slightly embellished by the passage of time, and a few humorous anecdotes derived from the three months since their last visit, again only _slightly_ embellished in the telling.

A few teens with guitars had set up shop on the corner nearest the café. One of them, a lanky young man with flaming red hair halfway down his back, cleared his throat, strummed a complicated series of arpeggios, and began belting out a song that had spent a great deal of time on the Top Ten lists that past winter, for reasons that probably made a lot of sense if you were nineteen and none at all to many members of the older generation.

It certainly made no sense to the small man at the table. LeBeau made a face only a step or two less revolted than the one he had worn the time Carter had inveigled him into trying something he'd called a 'corn dog.' The redhead, not noticing or not caring, informed the world at large that he was the Eggman, then, apparently changing his mind, announced that he was, in fact, the Walrus. Goo goo g'joob.

" _Mon Dieu_ , Pierre," he sniffed. "Were we that stupid when we were that age?"

Newkirk glanced at the buskers. "Louie, when we were that age, we were crawling about in tunnels, blowing up bridges and trying to stay a step ahead of the Gestapo. Stupid was the least of it."

LeBeau rolled his eyes, not impressed with the logic. He was somewhat thicker around the middle than he'd been in the old days; he still had an appreciation for fine cuisine that bordered on the fanatical. He now owned and ran a restaurant in Paris, one that connoisseurs spoke of with hushed respect and that former employees spoke of with hushed terror. One of his former sauciers—now a successful restauranteur in his own right—had dubbed him 'Dante,' on the grounds that LeBeau put his people through Hell… with the express intention of bringing them through to Paradise. A stint at 'La Maison des Ours' was becoming a required part of any ambitious chef's resume.

Newkirk just grinned. His face was a bit more lined than it had been during the war, and his salt and pepper hair was rapidly losing the 'pepper' element, but he was still whipcord over bone, and to his friend's undisguised irritation, his diet still consisted in large part of black coffee, cigarettes, and nervous energy. He'd stayed in the service, and had enjoyed a long and presumably successful career doing what he would only describe as 'a little of this and a little of that.' 'This,' in the past, had involved dropping off the radar, often for months or years at a time, but nowadays he spent far more of his time at a desk than he did anywhere else, and he was not shy about complaining about it, either. And, naturally, 'that' was classified.

LeBeau had a pretty good idea of what his friend had spent his life doing, of course, and it had caused him some gut-wrenching nightmares over the years. Even cats only got nine lives, after all, and he figured that their time at Stalag 13 had to have already accounted for at least four or five of them. But he'd eventually come to terms with the fact that, someday, the other shoe would drop, and that the inevitable three AM phone call would come when it came. Newkirk had told him, more than two decades ago, that he had listed, as next of kin, Mavis, on the grounds that she had the right to know what had happened to him, and the Colonel, on the grounds that he had the clearance to know what had _really_ happened to him. Furthermore, he'd said that he had asked the Colonel to tell the rest of them as much as he legally could. LeBeau suspected that, given their history, Hogan would tell them the truth, legally or not. He still wasn't sure whether or not that was a good thing.

But all that was in the hands of God and MI-6, not necessarily in that order. Until that phone call actually happened, he forced himself not to think too far into the future or press for explanations he was never going to get. About the only things he knew for absolute certain were that Newkirk had an impressive vocabulary of invective in five languages, including Russian, ex-girlfriends on four continents, and a great many scars about which he had said only, "Things happen, Louie."

Oh, and he also knew that Newkirk had been thrown out of the cinema during James Bond movies because he could not stop laughing. On three separate occasions.

"We were crawling through tunnels because we were fighting the worst danger the world had ever known. We were not howling nonsense and dressing like clowns. There is a difference."

"Maybe, maybe not," Newkirk said reasonably. "Every generation thinks the one before it is made up of senile old fossils and that the one after is full of brainless twits." He glanced at the buskers again. "Can't say I'm overly fond of their music myself, but they'll have nippers of their own who listen to something even worse. That enough revenge for you?"

"It is not just the terrible music, or the dreadful hair, though," LeBeau argued. "They don't… I don't even know. They just don't seem to _care_ about the world. The world we fought to give them."

"As I recall it, we weren't too chuffed with the world our fathers fought to give us, either," said Newkirk. "Hell, I'm not always all that fond of the world _we_ fought to give us. Maybe the kids have a point."

"Heh. You sound as though you're about to grow out your hair and begin playing the guitar."

"Shoot me first," said Newkirk with an expressive twist of his lip. "Sounds like torturing cats, and I imagine my landlord would have a few words to say to me on the subject of eviction. Or evisceration."

"And I wouldn't blame him. But indulge my curiosity. How have you managed to keep from alienating him this long?"

"Good looks, irresistible charm, and never once being late with the rent. Plus, a couple of lads who thought they were a great deal cleverer than they actually were broke in a couple of years back. I explained a few things to them, one thing led to another, and nobody else has tried it since."

"Professional courtesy?"

"Fear of God." Newkirk cocked his head; for a moment, a familiar predatory glint flickered through his expression, but it faded back into the even more familiar wry grin. "I certainly wouldn't call _that_ lot anything close to professional. Positively disgraceful, I'd've called it. No craft what-so-bloody-ever, and Alfie would've had my hide for a tea cozy if I'd ever been as sloppy as that."

"You see? It is as I said. Young people these days… I don't know where this will end."

"Well, if you figure it out, I'd love to hear it." Newkirk drank the last lukewarm sip of coffee, made a face. "Cor. Maybe these blokes should consider using _their_ coffeepot as a radio. You may hate pop music, but at least it's slightly less lethal than this sludge."

" _Very_ slightly. But never mind. It is your turn to cross the Channel. Next time, we will meet in Paris, and drink something palatable for a change. Shall we say sometime in June?"

"Not sure, mate," said Newkirk. "I've some business to attend to; don't know yet how long it'll take. But I'll call you when I'm back in town, and we can arrange something, all right?"

LeBeau stifled a sigh. It was never a good sign when Newkirk had 'business' to attend to, because it always, always meant that something terrible was in the process of happening, somewhere in the world. And he read the newspapers; terrible things were already happening in so many places that it was sometimes difficult to keep them all straight.

Why all of those terrible things needed to rest squarely on the shoulders of an aging Cockney thief was a question LeBeau had never been able to entirely answer, but he knew better than to say so. Again.

"Ah, _mais oui_. I'll drop everything the moment you deign to grace us with your presence," said LeBeau, tartly. Then he smiled. "And _bonne chance, mon pote._ Be careful. We are not as young as we used to be."

"And a good thing, too. Else I really might have to grow out my hair and start dressing like a tramp, just to fit in with the others."

"If you do, don't bother coming to Paris, after all," said LeBeau. "It's bad enough you still sound like a barbarian, without looking like one, too."

"Groovy. Peace out, man," said Newkirk with a wink and an exaggerated American drawl.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's Note: Allegedly, 'I Am The Walrus' was written after Lennon learned that students were being asked to analyze Beatles lyrics; he decided to write something so utterly random that it would be impossible to assign any meaning to it. If the story's true, it backfired, because everyone and their grandmother has taken a stab at deciphering the song. Either way, it's awfully fun to sing, and I like it far more than LeBeau seems to. The title is drawn from the bridge of the song- 'Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun/ If the sun don't come you get a tan from standing in the English rain.'

Speaking of LeBeau; his restaurant's name, La Maison des Ours, means 'the home of the bears.' Or something like that. I thought of calling it 'Chez les Ours,' but Google Translate insisted that meant 'in the bears,' and that wouldn't have done at all.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't three in the morning; it was five-thirty in the afternoon, and the entire kitchen was a blur of frantic, dinner-rush, two-servers-and-a-pastry-chef-out-sick, semi-choreographed madness. LeBeau, both literally and figuratively, was up to his elbows in work when the telephone rang. He couldn't have come up with a less convenient time for that call to come if he'd _tried,_ and, looking back on it, somehow that seemed entirely fitting.

The maître d' walked into the kitchen looking miffed. "There is a gentleman on the phone who insists that he needs to talk to you," he told LeBeau. "He says he is an old friend, and that it is important."

"I don't care how important he thinks it is; if we don't have a table available for tonight, then we don't have a table," said LeBeau. "Does he think that I can magically pull one out of my back pocket?"

"He's not asking for a table," said the maître d'. "He insists that he needs to speak to you on a personal matter."

"I don't have time for personal matters," said LeBeau, irritated. "Who is it? Tell him I'll call him back later, when I don't have eighty hungry people getting angrier by the minute."

"Very good, sir," said the maître d'. "He said his name was General Hogan. He sounded like an American," he added, disapprovingly, turning to go.

"Wait!" LeBeau dropped everything, wiping his hands on his apron. Eighty hungry people could wait a few minutes longer. "I'll take the call."

He hurried into his office, his heart pounding. "Hello? _Mon Colonel_ , is that you?"

Hogan had been 'General' for quite some time. The stars on his uniform, the nameplate on his desk, the pay stubs in his filing cabinet all bore mute witness to that fact. He was General Hogan to everyone on earth… with the notable exception of a few ex-POWs for whom he would never, ever be anything but 'the Colonel.' That was neither intended nor taken as disrespect. Quite the contrary. It was a badge of honor that had nothing to do with actual rank; they weren't calling him 'a' colonel. He was THE Colonel, and there was a difference.

His voice was raspy and tight. "Yeah, LeBeau, it's me. I… I need to talk to you about something, and it isn't good."

LeBeau closed his eyes, clutched the receiver tightly in his hand. He knew before he asked the question, but he asked it anyway, because maybe, just maybe, if he went through all the motions he'd get some other answer than the one he knew was coming. "Ah. It is Newkirk, n'est-ce pas?"

"That's right. I just got the news; you're the first one I'm calling." Hogan cleared his throat, putting off the moment that he would have to say it, to make it real, for just that extra moment longer. "I'm sorry, Louis. He's gone."

LeBeau's voice was low. "I see. They are certain? Have they recovered his body?"

"I don't think so," said Hogan. "Not that I was told, anyway."

"Then perhaps it was not him. There could yet be some mistake."

"I wish that were true," said Hogan. "I guess anything's possible; this _is_ Newkirk we're talking about. But it sounds pretty definite. Look, I'm going to call the others with the news, and then I'm flying overseas for… for a memorial, I guess. If you could come to London, we can talk in person." Unspoken was the implication that some things were not for public broadcast, and certainly not an unsecured telephone line; what he had to say would be ears only.

"…But I wasn't supposed to have to come to London. It was _his_ turn to cross the Channel," LeBeau mumbled. "I came to London last time; it was his turn. Not mine. He was supposed to come _here_. He was supposed to come _back_ …" he trailed off.

Hogan didn't say anything; LeBeau was not talking to him and he knew it. He was trying, one last, forlorn time, to convince the universe that there had been some mistake, that it was not too late to change things back to the way they should have been, and Hogan let him, because it was the only kindness he had to offer.

Getting ahold of himself, LeBeau continued, after a moment, in a very different voice. "Of course I will come to London. Of course I will. If I am not there tomorrow, I will be there the day after that."

"Okay. My assistant is going to arrange somewhere for us all to stay; he'll get you the details as soon as he's got them. I'll see you in a day or so."

"Yes. A day or so. Thank you for calling, Colonel."

"Hang in there," Hogan said awkwardly, and cut the connection. He leaned forward onto the desk, head resting in his hands. He'd lost men before; it came with the territory. He'd lost friends, too, had lost relatives; sooner or later, everyone did. He'd lost people who were family in every way that counted except blood, and he understood that anguish in all its myriad forms. But he'd never lost one of his heroes; he'd gotten them all— _all! —_ through the war in one piece. Whether that was attributable to his skill as a commander, to their own sheer guts and stamina, to the whims of Fate or the hand of God… one way or the other, he'd done it. He'd brought them all home. And, that being so, he supposed that somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd always assumed that they'd all live to a hundred and three, hale and hearty, and die peacefully in their sleep.

A memory struck him—a mission gone very sour. For the life of him, he couldn't even remember what they'd been trying to accomplish. It didn't matter. They'd managed it in the end, because they always did, but somewhere in between the impossible task, the improbable plan, and the inevitable triumph, there had been betrayal and disaster, and there had been a tiny, noisome stone cell, and there had been Newkirk's rock-steady composure.

"Ah, well," Hogan had said. "Who wants to die in bed?"

"I might've. It all depends on who else was in it with me at the time," Newkirk had said with an eloquent eyebrow.

"You've got a point there," Hogan conceded.

Newkirk eyed the single rickety cot with disfavor. "Like you said, ah, well. No offense intended, of course, Colonel, but given the current circumstances and the current company, being shot's probably the neater option for both of us." He smiled. "I will say, it's been an honor, sir."

"It's not often I'm insulted and complimented in the same breath," Hogan said.

"Well, we've not got many left. Only makes sense to conserve."

"I can always count on you to cheer me up," Hogan said. "Newkirk, have I ever told you how much I've always appreciated your indefatigable optimism? What your sunny attitude has meant to me all these years?"

"Can't say you have, no."

"Exactly. Think about that, why don't you?"

Newkirk chuckled, and sat down on the cot, which groaned rustily, and leaned back against the wall, the picture of relaxation. "I live to serve," he said. "For a few more hours, anyhow."

"This isn't how I thought things would turn out," Hogan had said, no longer able to keep up the joke. "I'm sorry, Newkirk."

"Don't be. It's been grand, and I wouldn't've missed a minute of it."

"Me personally, I'd have taken a pass on this particular minute if I'd been given my druthers," said Hogan. "Not to mention the one we've got to look forward to at dawn."

"Point taken. But still. It was all worth it." Newkirk smiled faintly. "Colonel, I lifted my first wallet when I was eight. By thirteen I was breaking into shops. Bank jobs at seventeen. My neck's been forfeit for a long time, and that's without reckoning with the fact that I've been on borrowed time since I hit the silk over Krautland. If anything, just you remember that I'm grateful to be dying for a reason Mavis won't have to be ashamed of, even if she can never know about it."

"That doesn't change the fact that I should have known better than to fall for such an obvious setup. It's my fault this happened. My stupidity. Look, I'll 'fess up, tell them that you were only following my orders, and maybe—"

"Don't give them the bleeding satisfaction, sir," Newkirk interrupted, clapping a brotherly hand on his shoulder. His voice warmed. "There was _never_ a chance I'd die anywhere what didn't have bars on the windows. Don't you go apologizing now. Not over this."

…Well, they'd gotten away, of course, and the day had been saved, but it seemed that Newkirk hadn't been wrong, after all. And it wasn't fair. If ever anyone had earned a long life and a peaceful death, Hogan thought, Newkirk surely had. He'd done so much for a world that had given him so little in return. Why didn't fate ever take that sort of thing into consideration? Why?

He cleared his throat one more time, then picked up the phone receiver, dialed Kinch's number, and steeled himself for another conversation he didn't want to have. And tried not to imagine what telling Carter was going to be like.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Under normal circumstances, trying to drop everything and fly across the globe on twenty minutes' notice presents certain logistical problems. Plane tickets are not free. Employers are not always understanding about unscheduled days off. There could be previous engagements, jury duty, measles outbreaks, school plays, broken water heaters, and a thousand other reasons—good, legitimate reasons—why it isn't always possible to go where one likes at the drop of a hat. People, quite simply, have lives, and complications, and responsibilities, and sometimes those responsibilities are not negotiable.

That said, these were men who had faced down the entirety of the Nazi war machine with little more than ingenuity and determination. Successfully. All four of them were in London within forty-eight hours. Because people have responsibilities. And sometimes those responsibilities are not negotiable.

Stephens was waiting for them. The poker-spined young officer who showed the heroes into a quiet conference room looked like he'd stepped off a recruiting poster. Stephens, who even in his prime had looked like the 'Before' photo in a vitamin advertisement, hadn't changed much in twenty years, aside from a few minor details, like the silvering of his always thin hair; he still gave the impression of a dull, mild-mannered, politely forgettable milquetoast of a man. Except that today he looked old. Suddenly frail; his cane seemed a necessity rather than a precaution. More than that, he looked defeated. The heroes had worked with Newkirk for the equivalent of a lifetime, all crammed into a few short, intense years. But after the war, Stephens, Hogan remembered, had worked with Newkirk for a lifetime taken day by day. He was grieving, too.

"Thank you for coming all this way, gentlemen," said Stephens, after they had all settled into their seats.

"Thank you for keeping us in the loop," said Kinch. "I can't imagine that explaining us to your superiors was easy."

"Fortunately for me, I don't have too many superiors anymore, and those I do have didn't need any explanations," said Stephens. "No one's forgotten what you chaps did; I'd've had far more explaining to do if I'd tried to shut you out. And no need for thanks; you've more than earned the courtesy of the truth."

"Yes. What, then, is the truth?" LeBeau asked. "What happened to Pierre? How did he die?"

Stephens looked him straight in the eye. "He died the way he lived," he said. "In the worst place on earth, doing a thankless, miserable job that no one in their right mind would care to tackle. Because I asked him to. Because we needed his help to at least postpone, if not avert, a war that no one wants and that no one can hope to win. I warn you; you'd best think very carefully before you ask me for any further details. "

"Why is that?" asked Carter. "What will you do if we ask?"

Stephens' voice didn't break, but it was a close thing. "I'll _answer_. Believe me, you don't want that. Here," he said, pulling a letter from his pocket and placing it carefully on the table. "This is for you gents. I'll just give you a few minutes to read it, shall I?" He stood up, hobbled to the door, and let himself out of the room to regain his composure; a strategic retreat that none of them either misunderstood or grudged him.

They all stared at the letter for a moment. In Newkirk's neat, plain handwriting, the front of the envelope was addressed simply to 'The Bears.' Hogan picked it up, turned it over. It was sealed, and in the same hand, written across the flap, in lieu of red wax, were the words 'Just In Case.'

"Read it, Colonel Hogan," Kinch said quietly.

Hogan nodded, tore open the envelope, and pulled out the single sheet of paper it contained, and took a deep breath. "Dear mates," he began, then stopped, forced a smile to cover a choke. "He always hated my attempts at an English accent," he said. "But this just sounds so wrong in my voice."

"We're all imagining it in his voice anyway," said Carter, of all people. "It's okay. Just read it."

Hogan nodded, and started over.

 _Dear mates;_

 _If you're reading this, I guess my luck finally ran out on me. So it seemed like it would be a good idea to set the record straight in a couple of places, and this way you'll all have it clear in black and white. First of all, if you're all sitting around feeling sad, I want you to stop that shite immediately. I mean it. I had a good run, and I did things that were worth doing, and I had some of the best mates any man could ever hope for. That's more than I, in my wildest dreams, ever expected to get out of life, and if you're going to remember me at all, do me the courtesy of not spoiling it with wailing and gnashing of teeth. I've always hated funerals; don't go poncing around with black armbands telling each other what a fine fellow I was. (And for that matter, don't go telling the truth, either!) Instead, I want you to go to a pub, lift a glass or six in my name, flirt with the barmaid if she's pretty, and have a few laughs. Because that's what we really were fighting for, isn't it? For a time when people, even ones as different as all of us, could share a pint, and a joke, and a world, free and fearless. So go make the most of it, mates. We did the work, might as well enjoy the benefits._

 _I've tried a few times to write you individual messages, and all of them ended up in the fire. I'm good at a lot of things, but sharing feelings and the like isn't one of them. So I'll just say that you—all of you— were the best thing that ever happened to me. You showed me who and what I was supposed to be, and that's a debt I could never repay. You kept me alive, even when I didn't want you to. You kept me sane in a time and a place that came close to breaking me. You made me a better man than I'd thought I could be, because you believed that I could. I've tried to live up to that, to justify your faith in me, and I hope I succeeded in some measure._

 _It isn't everyone who could look at a hotheaded, sarcastic, pain-in-the-arse thief sitting in an isolation cell praying for death and see something worth bothering with. If I never said it before, please know that a day doesn't go by that I'm not grateful to all of you for taking the trouble. A lot of spies might have used the services of a cracksman, especially if one was ready to hand. I'd wager that most of them wouldn't have lowered themselves to make friends with him, and it means a lot to me that you did. It was always an honor serving with you, and even more of an honor that you stayed my friends after that service was done._

 _Well, that's enough of this soppy nonsense. Remember what I said—if you want to remember me, do it with a smile and a joke. If I hear you moaning and crying, I'll come back and bloody well haunt you, and you'll never find your wallets ever again. And your lady friends will all wake up smiling and blushing, and refusing to tell you why. So be told!_

 _Yours truly, Peter Newkirk, Esquire_

 _PS: Louie, I always took the mickey out of you about your cooking. All in fun, of course, and from the start, you and I were always able to joke around, but, looking back, I hope you never held it against me. Do me a favor. After I'm gone, I want you to go into your kitchen and make a pot of that fish stew I always complained about. And when it's all cooked and ready, I want you to sit down, ladle out a big bowl of it, and say to yourself, once and for all, that the stuff is bleeding nasty and completely unfit for human consumption. Because it is. –PN_

Hogan put down the letter. Ten thousand emotions were all fighting for the chance to surface, and he wasn't sure which would win. He looked around the table. Kinch looked solemn. Carter looked devastated. LeBeau… was actually smiling, the tiniest bit.

" _Oui._ That is Pierre. That is our Pierre," he said, his eyes suspiciously shiny. "No taste. No taste at all. Ah, _mon pauvre frere_."

Carter folded his arms, tightly, as if he were physically trying to hold himself together. "How could he say all that stuff?" he said, his voice taut with hurt. "How could he? Thanks for _bothering_ with him? For _lowering_ ourselves to make friends? What the heck was _that_ supposed to mean?"

Kinch sighed. "It means he thought he wasn't worth bothering with, Andrew. You knew that. We all knew that."

"Yeah, but how could he think _we_ thought that?"

"He knew we didn't," Hogan said. "He never could figure out why not. But he knew. And it meant a lot to him; he said so himself."

"Not so," corrected LeBeau. "It meant everything to him. _Everything_."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Half a world away from that quiet conference room, Newkirk fought his way through the layers of gauze that separate the waking world from unconsciousness, opened his eyes, and immediately regretted taking the trouble when he saw where he was.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: This was probably a tad early for the reveal that this is an adventure story, and not a tragedy, but so many people seemed genuinely worried that our friend wasn't going to make it to retirement that I didn't have the heart to prolong the cliffhanger.

The 'Just In Case' letter is, of course, a reference to a previous short story, (I've Got A Little List,) but it's not necessary to have read that one beforehand. And Stephens is an OC from 'Traduttore, Traditore,' and all you really need to know about him is that he's a much less glamorous, if far more productive, version of James Bond.


	3. Chapter 3

After a decent interval, Stephens came back into the room; this time his recruiting-poster-model aide came with him. And quietly, with no dramatics, Stephens told the heroes what little there was to know about the mission.

East Germany. There had been an important meeting with a potential defector; a high-level official with a great deal of priceless information locked up in his head.

It was information that Britain desperately wanted. Needed. Intelligence that no one else had, things that had never been committed to paper, and which could, with no hyperbole, change the course of the twentieth century.

This was a mission that could not be allowed to fail for any reason, a mission that called for every resource and every advantage possible. Including the best agent they had.

There was an obsessively detailed plan to get him safely out of the country; every contingency covered and every potential obstacle averted. Security had been airtight; everything—everything!— had been restricted to the highest levels of clearance. And, yet, somehow, despite it all, there had been a car that had been wired to blow, leaving nothing but a few bits of twisted metal and two bodies, both of them burned far past recognition. Almost past recognition as _human_.

Whether the assassin's intended target had been the turncoat or the spy was still an unanswered question. How anyone who might have wished either of them harm had learned about the meeting in the first place was another one. Nor did anyone seem to know who had set the bomb, or when, how, or why. No one, on any shade of the political spectrum, had claimed credit, and by this time, it seemed unlikely that anyone ever would.

Several of the more bitterly cynical types were openly wondering if the supposed defector had ever been anything more than an elaborate honey trap; Stephens personally did not believe it, but it was, of course, possible. If so, then not only had Newkirk's death bought them less than nothing, but that wasted sacrifice might even have tipped Britain's hand, burning contacts that had taken years to set in place.

Might have. Or might not. No one knew. Essentially, no one knew anything, and most of the real power brokers, of whom Stephens was emphatically not one, wanted to keep it that way. Britain did not want to admit that they had attempted to entice a key official into treason; East Germany did not want anyone to know how close they had come to pulling it off.

Officially, Stephens said, the defector was at the best hospital in the country, being treated for bronchial pneumonia, and would probably 'die' within a week; there might, or might not, be a state funeral. Officially, Newkirk, who, on paper, was a glorified file clerk, would quietly retire into pensioned obscurity, and his name would never be mentioned again. Officially, everyone was going to pretend that none of it had ever happened.

Officially, the world had tilted a fraction more towards yet another war, and everyone knew it.

After Stephens had finished his low-voiced, somewhat didactic explanation, the silence he left in his wake was suffocating. Carter stared at his hands, trying not to remember how many cars he had personally rigged to blow. Trying not to remember how many bodies he, personally, had burned past recognition. Trying not to remember the wreckage. Trying not to remember the _smells_. The greasy smoke. The charred meat and spilled fuel oil.

Those had meant victory, once.

"I wonder how they did it," he said. The words spilled out of him, fast and faster, in a high, unnatural voice. "The bomb, that is. There are probably all sorts of nifty new tricks since my day. I wonder, did they set it on a timer? That's good for something like a train, with a strict schedule, but not so good for cars. Maybe they had it so it went off when they turned the key in the ignition; I always liked doing it that way. That way you knew your target was right where you wanted him before—" he broke off, and made a strangled noise, deep in his throat, that wasn't sure if it wanted to be a sob or a 'kaboom' sound effect.

Carter hadn't built a bomb since the war, and he'd never been a violent man to begin with, but he still remembered the visceral excitement of a really big explosion. And he remembered the grim satisfaction when a bomb went off, how every inferno felt as though it was bringing them all that much closer to home and peace and freedom. He remembered taking pride in that.

Someone just like him had built the bomb that killed Newkirk. Someone just like him had planned out the whens and the wheres and the hows of burning Newkirk alive. That someone was probably feeling proud of himself, too. Carter fought off the sudden urge to vomit.

Kinch was sitting closest to him. Without hesitation, he leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't do that, Andrew. He wouldn't want you to do this to yourself."

Carter ducked his shoulders, made an odd gesture somewhere between a nod and a head shake. "I know. I know he wouldn't. It's just that…" he trailed off.

"At least it was fast," offered Stephens, and it was obvious by the way he said it that he'd been clinging to that scrap of comfort for some time. "Fast and probably painless. I'm grateful for that much, at least."

"Indeed. Daresay we're all grateful for that. Being captured would have been far worse for the poor chap… and there's always the chance he might have talked," said the aide. Five angry glares from around the table sliced into him; he stiffened. "I don't mean to sound unsympathetic. But there _is_ a bigger picture here."

"We're all aware of that, Moore," Stephens said, wearily. "But big pictures are made of smaller pictures. One of those pictures is that _they've_ lost a dear friend, and _I've_ lost my right hand. So if you could display a modicum of tact, please?"

Moore flushed, and looked away for a moment to compose himself. "Yes, sir. Dreadfully sorry. I know what he meant to you." He paused, then added, "I think everyone knew."

"I should hope so," said LeBeau. "I should hope that everyone knew that he was valued as he deserved." _I hope that **he** knew he was valued, _LeBeau didn't say _. I hope he finally believed it._

"Precisely. As he deserved," Moore agreed.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"I'm telling you—you have the wrong man! I've done nothing wrong!" A long and rather eventful career had made Newkirk's German as fluent and natural as his English, if not more so. Even in extremis, his accent didn't falter a hair. "I swear to you, my name is Johann Schwartz; I'm just a tailor! I am loyal! Please, please; I don't know what you're talking about!"

The thugs traded a glance; one shrugged slightly, and the other hit him, hard enough that he saw stars. It was not the first time they'd had some variation of that little conversation.

 _I'm too damned old for this job,_ Newkirk thought muzzily, as he gasped for breath, and tried to ignore the second half of that thought, hard on the heels of the first. _And it doesn't look like I'm all that likely to get much older._ Aloud, he sobbed pitifully, which took no acting ability whatsoever, and whimpered something incoherent about his utter innocence and unshakable patriotism. Tied as he was to a chair, his options were few; vague blubbering was the best he could manage. And was about all he had the strength for, anyway.

"Enough," someone said. It was a new voice; sharp and slimy, like egg white dripping from a razor blade. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dummkopf had voices like fists, harsh and relentless and uncomplicated.

There are some memories seared deeply enough into a man's soul that they bypass conscious recollection. That voice was one of them, and Newkirk broke out in a cold sweat before he recognized why.

"I will continue the interrogation. Alone," the voice continued. "I am sure that Herr… Schwartz, was it? I am sure that we will find a great deal to say to one another. You two may go."

Newkirk looked up at him, his mind racing. The man was stockier than he'd been in the bad old days, and his face was lined and seamed into grim ugliness. The eyes were sunken deeper into his skull, but they still glittered with the same raw hatred they always had. He was wearing a different uniform, and most of his hair had given up the struggle, but there was no doubt of his identity.

Of course it was him. Of _course_ he'd survived; it made perfect sense. Only the good die young.

"Well now, Herr… 'Schwartz'… your papers appear to be in perfect order." Going strictly by appearances, he'd reinvented himself as Stasi, but beneath the thin cloth of his uniform, he was a Nazi, a jailer, a torturer, and a horror Newkirk had spent decades failing to banish from his nightmares, and he was smiling with anticipatory pleasure that made Newkirk's blood run even colder than before. "I must commend you on the excellence of your forgers. Masterful work."

Newkirk didn't break character. Surely he'd had tortured enough people over the years that one insignificant corporal wouldn't stand out in his memory. Surely he was just fishing, trying to trick Newkirk into a confession. He couldn't _know_ , not for sure, couldn't really recognize him. Surely God was kinder than that…

"I'm not who you say. I'm just a tailor," he said. "I… I haven't done anything wrong. Please… I want to go home."

He picked up the papers again. "A tailor. I see. There appear to be no distinguishing marks listed on your records. It's a rather odd omission, don't you think? Forgive my curiosity, but may I ask how a _tailor_ acquired the scars we both know you're hiding under that shirt?"

Newkirk's mind spun through possible excuses. And came up blank.

"I have waited a long time for this moment, Corporal Newkirk," Lange murmured, switching to English. "A very long time. Do you remember the last time we spoke? Do you remember what you said to me?"

Newkirk met his gaze unflinchingly, and switched back to English, too. There no longer seemed to be much of a reason to do otherwise. "Yeah. I said that you should have finished me off when you had the chance."

Lange's smile widened. "It's so rare that we get a second chance to remedy our mistakes, isn't it?"

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

 _Gestapo headquarters was severely lacking in a lot of ways—uninspired architecture, poor ventilation, bad acoustics—but credit where it was due, they hadn't skimped on security. Hogan was not in a mood to assign credit whether it was due or not; his temper was fraying at the edges. This was a good thing. It covered the rising panic quite nicely. He actually growled, deep in his throat._

 _"You're the cat burglar," Hogan snapped, turning all his frustrations onto his cellmate. "Break us out of here!"_

 _"You're the pilot," Newkirk snapped right back. He hadn't had the most pleasant of evenings, either. "Fly us out!"_

 _Hogan scowled at him. "Watch it, mister. I don't appreciate the attitude."_

 _"Oh, good heavens, he doesn't appreciate the attitude," Newkirk said. "Whatever shall I do? Going to put me in prison, are you? Turn me over to the Gestapo?" He threw up his hands. "They took my tools, Colonel. Everything, up to and including a paper clip I'd actually forgotten I had in my pocket. I can't bloody well pick locks with my teeth! I've not so much as—" He stopped, looked closely at Hogan._

 _"What?"_

 _"Colonel, this is going to sound right barmy. But can I borrow your eagles for a moment?"_

 _Hogan opened his mouth to argue, then changed his mind. He unpinned them from his collar and handed them silently over._

 _Newkirk examined them closely, shook his head, and handed them back. "Hmm. What about your wings, sir?"_

 _Hogan complied. "You have an idea?"_

 _"Yes, sir," Newkirk said, looking closely at the long shaft of the pin. "And I'm going to apologize in advance, all right, sir? You can court-martial me later." With that, he jabbed the pin against the stone floor, hard, bending the tip into a tiny hook. He stuck the improvised pick into the lock and cocked his head, concentrating fiercely, as the world narrowed to the minute vibrations coming through his fingertips._

 _The lock clicked open._

 _Hogan raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed._

 _Newkirk grinned, and handed him back his wings, only slightly the worse for wear. "You know, sir, I might have to consider working my way up to officer rank, after all. Those pins of yours come in right handy."_

 _"If we get away clean, I'll put in the paperwork myself. Come on!"_

Hogan shook his head, brushing away the memories that were swarming through his head in no particular order. "You said that all information about this was being kept under wraps. Seems like the first thing to do is find out where and how it leaked."

"That's an internal matter," Moore said, quellingly. "But I assure you that finding that leak is our top priority, and we are doing everything possible."

Hogan, unquelled, gave him a slow look. "And who are 'we,' exactly? The same top level clearance types who were doing the planning the first time? Newkirk can't have been the only guy you've sent into dangerous situations. How many more lives are you willing to throw away?"

"General, you and your men were brought here in gratitude for services rendered nearly thirty years ago. It was intended as a courtesy, not as an open invitation to relive your glory days playing the dashing hero—"

"Moore, that's _enough!_ " Stephens snapped. "I realize that we're all upset, but this is entirely unacceptable. Go back to your office and find something useful to do; we'll discuss this later."

Moore froze for a moment, then nodded crisply and stood up. "Yes, sir. My apologies, sir."

As the door closed behind him, Stephens sighed. "My apologies as well, gentlemen. Inexcusable behavior, but he and Newkirk worked quite closely for several years now, and I won't say that the prospect of a possible leak doesn't have us all rather on edge."

"I can understand that," Hogan said, somewhat begrudgingly. He had not liked Moore's stonewalling, or his disrespect; there was no reason he should have. The crack about trying to relive his glory days, though—that was what had really stung. There was a little too much truth in it for comfort.

Hogan _did_ want to be a part of whatever investigation they'd planned. He wanted vengeance for Newkirk, and he wanted assurance that nothing similar would happen to all the other Newkirks out there risking their lives in deep cover. He wanted to take charge of it all, because there was still a part of him that never quite trusted that anyone else would do things as well as he could. No, not quite. As well as he _and his team_ could.

Just for a little while, it would be so nice to be simply Colonel Hogan again, to be Papa Bear, bane of the Third Reich, with a crack team behind him and a glittering future in front of him. Just for a little while.

And maybe he wanted to be part of it because if he were busy enough with logistics and strategy, he could forget just who would not be standing at his side. Not ever again.

*.*.*.*.*.*.

Author's note: As regards that little flashback, I'm the rankest of amateurs when it comes to the fine art and science of lockpicking, but I'll cut to the chase. No, this would almost certainly not have worked. Poetic license is a lovely thing. But then again, Newkirk is a hell of a lot better than I am at this sort of caper; if anyone _could_ manage to pick a lock with a rank badge, it would be him.

Lange is another OC from a previous story. (Traduttore, Traditore) The only important fact to know is that he was one of several kommandants who ran Stalag 13 before Klink's tenure, and that no one was sorry to see him go. Let's just say that Klink was a definite improvement on his predecessor in every way possible and leave it at that.


	4. Chapter 4

Newkirk took a deep breath, let it out. "Right, then. So here we are. May as well get on with it; I never did much care for waiting. So, what'll it be? Going to stick with your old standby, or have you come up with any new ideas since the war?"

"Don't tempt me. I've dreamed of getting a second chance to make you scream."

"You didn't make me scream the _first_ time."

"An omission I'd love to rectify. But as much as it pains me to admit it, for now, you're worth more to me alive than dead. I want to make a deal, and you're going to help me."

"Is that right."

"Yes. The climate in East Germany is becoming somewhat… hot for my tastes. It's not safe here for me any longer. I could be arrested any day now."

Newkirk looked down at himself, as if verifying that, yes, he was in fact still tied to a chair, in a windowless back room. In his driest, most bitterly sardonic tones, he said, "My deepest sympathies."

"You're too kind. I want safe passage out of the country. With a full amnesty, of course, plus safe conduct, a new identity, and everything that goes with it. I know you were planning to smuggle Koch into England, so obviously the arrangements have already been made. You can simply take me instead."

"Why in hell would I do that? More to the point, why would my government do that?"

"For starters, I'm presuming they'd like to get you back in one piece. No accounting for taste, after all."

Newkirk laughed. "You're expecting the red carpet treatment, and all you have to offer in exchange is my mangy old hide? Cor; I always knew you were crazy, but I hadn't expected stupid on top of it."

"Your mangy hide could be worth quite a bit to the correct buyer. Which, let me remind you, doesn't necessarily have to be your own government; you've made enemies across half the world. You vastly underestimate your value."

"And you vastly overestimate yours. No deal."

"Don't be so hasty," said Lange. "I do have one other bargaining chip."

"Do tell. The suspense is just killing me."

"We'll get to that later. Do you remember how I caught you the _last_ time?"

Newkirk didn't say anything. He remembered.

Lange chuckled. "History really is repeating itself, isn't it? Your government might not care overmuch about _you_ , and I wouldn't blame them, but I imagine they'd be quite eager to know precisely which of your colleagues told us what you were up to and where we could find you. And what they received in return."

"You're lying," Newkirk said, more or less automatically. "This trick's older than dirt. You know nothing, you've got nothing, you _are_ nothing."

"Don't be like that. I'm sure that there were very good reasons for designating you as the sacrificial lamb. Again."

"I'm sure," said Newkirk, between his teeth. If it were true—which it couldn't be, _couldn't_ be, except for the part where it was all too hideously possible—then Lange was right. If MI-6 had a mole, one high enough to have gotten the particulars of this of all missions… the potential damage was too devastating to even think about. For information like that, they would pay any price he asked and count it cheap.

"Perhaps it isn't too late for us to come to an understanding of our own. Make no mistake, however; I'm not offering you your life in exchange for mine. I've waited too long for this; you die whether or not they make the deal," Lange said.

"Charming. You're utter rubbish at this 'bargaining' thing, did you know that?"

"Calling it bargaining would imply that you have any real choice in the matter. I want my safety assured. What I am offering you in exchange is the chance to inform your superiors of the leak in their organization _before_ your execution. I'll tell them exactly who is passing on the information, and to whom, and how it's done. The why and wherefore they'll have to ascertain for themselves; I never cared enough to ask. "

"Selling out the sell-out. Even more charming. This is an example of that 'German sense of honor' I've been hearing about all these years?"

"Call it what you like. Do you want the names, or not? Your other alternative is to die knowing that we will continue to be informed of every decision your government makes, up to and including what the Queen eats for breakfast."

Lange might be lying. But then again… he might not. If there was a mole, nothing was more important than hunting it down, and if there wasn't, then there was no difference. It wasn't a risk worth taking; perhaps _he_ was a dead man either way, but there were other people to consider.

He'd already lived far longer than he'd ever had any right to expect.

Time to roll the dice.

"You've got a deal," Newkirk said.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Sitting behind a silent radio setup waiting for it to do something— _anything_ —was, unsurprisingly, almost as exciting as it sounded. Kinch yawned, gave the radio one last hopeful look, and rolled his eyes when it failed to respond.

"So much for the glamorous life of the spy," he said. "London must be taking an extra-long tea break or something."

"Rub it in, mate," Newkirk said from the other side of the desk. He was taking the next shift, and had known to come prepared for a boring evening. He'd brought his mending basket, and was darning a sock in a fairly desultory manner that suggested that he was regretting his choice of entertainment. "I've not seen a cup of tea in more than a month. And it's been longer than that since I saw a _good_ cup of tea."

"Sorry. With any luck our Red Cross packages should arrive soon. Even if they don't have any tea this time around, they usually have coffee."

"From your mouth to God's ear," Newkirk said. "LeBeau's doing his best, but I'm pretty sure that if he took all the real coffee we've got left in the whole bleeding camp and put it together, we'd end up with one very lonely little bean. After the war, I hope I never see chicory again as long as I live."

"After the war. God, are there three more beautiful words in the language?"

"A few, but most of them work better with a pretty bird around," Newkirk said. "But leaving those aside, yeah; 'after the war' certainly has a nice ring to it."

"What do you think you'd like to do after we're back home? Aside from the obvious. Once we're back to our real lives."

"Don't know, really. I try not to think that far ahead, you understand?" For once he sounded completely serious, contemplating his half-mended sock as though it held answers. "I don't think I'll go back to what I was doing before, though."

"That's probably a good idea. I mean, you'll have just gotten _out_ of prison; you don't want to take the chance of ending up right back in again."

Newkirk went very still. After a moment, he went back to his darning, and said in something almost exactly like his usual tones, "Cheers, mate, but I was actually talking about taking the old magic act back out on the theater circuit. Might get something thrown at you if the audience gets restless, but it's not usually a jailing offense."

Kinch winced. "Sorry, Pete. I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

"Of course you did," said Newkirk, with a crooked smile. "Come on, Kinch. How else could you possibly have meant it? It's all right. No more than the truth, eh?"

"Still," Kinch began, then stopped. Newkirk was right; in a way, it was no more than the truth. And in every other way, it was less. So much less.

"Still," Newkirk agreed, putting a firm end to that conversation. "Maybe I'll have a go at tailoring something besides German uniforms. What about you? Back to the phone company, or strike out for pastures afresh?"

The memory, as always, made Kinch cringe. Neither of them had ever mentioned the incident again, but in the back of his mind he'd always suspected that it had made a far larger impression on Newkirk than he'd let on. That he'd lived with a quiet certainty that no one would ever—could ever—see him as anything more than a petty criminal. That no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he accomplished, in the end, he was never going to be allowed to move beyond the _—_ how had he put it? Ah, yes. That he would never amount to more than the 'hotheaded, sarcastic, pain-in-the-arse thief' he had been when he began. In the back of his mind, Kinch had always wondered if that had influenced his decision to stay in the spy business, when the rest of them hadn't been able to shake the dust off their feet fast enough. The other heroes, with the possible exception of himself, hadn't had nearly as much to prove.

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Stephens," he said politely. "I understand that we're not part of your group, and that we can't be given access to any truly sensitive information."

Stephens nodded. "I'm very much afraid that is a fact."

"That's more than reasonable. God knows that I, for one, haven't done anything even remotely like this since '45. But even if you can't use us as spies, it seems to me that there's got to be _some_ way for us to help you catch your rat. And I think I speak for all of us when I say that we'd very much like a chance to get some payback for what he did to Newkirk."

Stephens cocked his head, a sudden spark of interest appearing in his tired face for the first time since they'd sat down. "I would be very interested in hearing anything you can suggest."

Hogan drummed his fingers on the table. If this had been the barracks, he would already have been up and pacing the floor, and all three heroes could tell that staying seated was taking some enormous effort. "There's the obvious tactic, of course," he said after a moment.

"Which is?"

"Stephens, are you familiar with the story of the Trojan Horse?" asked Hogan.

He shrugged, disappointed. "I didn't have a classical education. But if you don't want the original Greek, I suppose I am. Are you suggesting we use Homer's strategy?"

"I'm suggesting we use Sinon's," said Hogan. "By now, whoever's behind this knows that you've called in Newkirk's old war buddies. They'd probably love to know exactly what you're planning, and what it has to do with us." He nodded decisively, with the same old dangerous glitter in his eyes that had always accompanied his most devious plans. "I say we _tell_ them."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: In the Iliad, Sinon was a skillful deceiver; his name actually means 'to do harm.' He was deliberately left behind when the Greeks pretended to leave Troy, so that he could spin lies about where the Greeks had gone, and what the Horse was, so that he could convince the Trojans to take it into the city... and be destroyed. I don't know the original Greek either, but that's the gist.

Kinch has been beating himself up about that one careless comment since he moment he said it. I feel almost as bad for him as I do for Newkirk.


	5. Chapter 5

London, 1946

Hogan had been in London for all of six hours, and would very much have liked to spend more of them sleeping off the jet lag. But needs must when the devil drives. This wasn't a pleasure trip, or one with a great deal of spare time built into the schedule; there were meetings he had to attend later that afternoon, and most of the rest of the week, for that matter, so if he was going to accomplish his own objective—namely, demanding an explanation for extended, unexpected, and somewhat hurtful radio silence—it was going to have to be now.

He didn't have a current address, but he did remember any number of envelopes both to and from an address in Stepney, so that seemed like a good a place to start. He walked down the narrow streets, noting the places that showed where the war had come all too close. Noting the places that showed where its inhabitants had reclaimed what was theirs. It was inspiring, really. The indomitable human spirit at its best, and—

…And three indomitable human spirits in the next block were busily engaged in demonstrating to a fourth the proper use of a heavy work boot. Hogan hesitated for a moment, but only a moment, and had already started running towards them when one of the thugs reached down and hauled his victim onto his feet, pinioning his arms behind his back.

The blood and bruising were not enough to mask the man's features, and Hogan felt as though _he_ had just been punched in the gut.

"What the hell is going on here?" Hogan snapped, in his harshest, most commanding voice, which he devoutly hoped would make the thugs forget that, A: they still had him outnumbered, and, B: he didn't actually have any authority here.

"Nothing you need trouble yourself with," said the one who seemed to be the ringleader, in a sneering voice that said that he, at least, had worked out A for himself, and possibly B as well.

"If it's about _him_ , then trust me; I'm already troubled," Hogan said, none-too-gently shoving his way into their midst. "And I _do not like_ being troubled."

Newkirk's eyes widened for a split second, then he let his head drop a bit and his shoulders slump. "No, sir. I'm sorry, sir," he said, a bit too loudly. "Please, sir; I didn't... That is, I haven't been… I've not… Please, sir!" Under his breath, he hissed, "Be Hochstetter. Drag me off for questioning. I'll explain later!"

The one still twisting his arms behind his back, who obviously had not heard that last bit, began smiling. "Oh, I see you two know each other. Well... the wheels of justice grind slow, but grind fine, is that it, chum?"

Newkirk looked desperately around him with the despairing, abject entreaty that Hogan had seen him produce on command a hundred times. Until he met Hogan's eye, and gave a tiny, decisive, get-on-with-it nod. Hogan had seen _that_ a hundred times, too.

"I've got a few questions, Newkirk," Hogan said, letting his voice drop about ten degrees, ice all but forming on the name as he spat it out. _More than a few, looks like…_ "We can do this the easy way or not; your choice."

"Yes, sir," Newkirk repeated, just a hint of Klink's submissive whine in his voice. "Anything you say, sir."

There was no way Hogan could miss the hungry, expectant looks on the onlookers' faces. They wanted blood, he realized, sickened. Well, he'd improvised before, and he'd done it while facing far worse than a few London lowlives. Never one to underplay a role, he grabbed Newkirk roughly by the arm and pushed the other man ahead of him, safely away from the gathering crowd. "Come on. Move it! Did you honestly think you were going to get away with this?"

"No, sir," Newkirk muttered, his head bowed, and said nothing more as Hogan frogmarched him out of the alley.

Newkirk didn't drop the attitude of cowed resignation as they emerged into the main street, so Hogan kept up the martinet demeanor, although he did let go of his arm as soon as it seemed safe to do so. They walked in chilly silence until they had reached a shabby tenement some blocks away. Wordlessly, Newkirk led Hogan in, up several flights of dismal stairs, and closed the door of his room behind them. His demeanor shifted like magic.

"Well, Colonel," he said, straightening up and smiling. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"Never mind the pleasantries! What was that all about?"

"Well, sir… I'm not the most popular bloke in London right about now. You showing up when you did… bad timing on your part, I'm afraid. You came a bit closer than I like to think about to waking up in the gutter alongside of me, with two black eyes and no front teeth."

"Who were those guys? What did you do?"

"Navvies, sir. Nobody important. They're on the same road crew as me, is all."

" _You're_ working on a road crew?"

"All that practice digging tunnels back in camp paid off," Newkirk said lightly. "I'm a dab hand with a pick and shovel, I am."

Hogan looked around. The tiny room was distinctly reminiscent of the cooler, if a bit less welcoming and luxurious, and Newkirk himself looked wearier—and far older—than eight months of peacetime life should have left him. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing at all, sir," he shrugged it off. "Let me get you a drink, shall I? Have you heard from any of the other lads, Colonel? Wait, it's General now, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," Hogan agreed, and took the glass, but he had never been that easy to sidetrack before, and a little extra braid on his uniform hadn't changed that. "Never mind that. I asked you a question. What's going on? Why were they getting ready to hand you your head in a bag?"

"Well, it's Saturday. I'd have time to sleep it off and be back at work on Monday morning."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means the foreman gets tetchy if he's a man short, plus they finally figured out that they're the ones what have to take up the slack if I can't work. So putting me out of commission on worknights only backfires on them. Weekends are more convenient all around." Newkirk poured himself a drink and looked into the glass for a moment. "It doesn't concern you. Tell me, sir. What've you been up to since peace broke out?"

"Paperwork, mostly. Being a general isn't what it's cracked up to be. How long have your colleagues been beating you up?"

"Oh, I daresay they'll lose interest after a while. It's under control, sir. Met any interesting birds in the Pentagon?"

"Stop avoiding the question, damn it! That's an order! What's going on?"

"War's over, and I'm officially out of the service. _Sir_. You don't have the authority to give me orders anymore, and I'd like to see you try to make me obey them."

Hogan drew a breath to deliver something scathing in reply, then stopped. This was not the first time he had seen Newkirk deliberately irritate someone into a state of fury, usually when, for whatever reason, he didn't want to continue the conversation currently in progress. And he knew him too well to miss the tang of real pain behind the veiled threat. "You're right. I don't. But I'm not asking as a CO; I'm asking as a friend. What the hell is happening here?"

Newkirk closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. "Right then. I got back to town seven or eight weeks ago, or thereabouts. Getting that job was a stroke of luck, and I'm not kicking about it, but the other lads… they're rough sorts."

"Seven weeks? Debriefing was right here in London, and it only took a couple of days. What were you doing with yourself for six months?"

"Comparing the décor in the cooler to the glasshouse, mostly. Not much to choose from between the two, turns out. Food was a bit better here, I'll give them that."

"Wait— _what?_ " Hogan didn't quite spit his drink across the table, but he came close. "The _glasshouse_? Why were you _there?_ What the hell did you do? Steal the Prime Minister's watch?"

Newkirk looked taken aback. "Blimey—what do you take me for? If I had done, you think they would've caught me? No, it was the, ah, the treason charge. You know, sir. Giving aid and comfort to the enemy and all."

"The _what?_ " The words simply didn't make sense. Hogan shook his head to clear it. "All right, let's try that again. Start at the beginning this time."

"Oh. _Oh._ Sorry, Guv'ner," Newkirk said, as the truth dawned on him. "You didn't know, did you? You really didn't know."

"I still don't. What in the name of God is going on here?"

"God doesn't have much to do with it. It was that bloody radio broadcast. With me rabbiting on about how the Krauts had us beat, remember? Seems they played it a fair few times, and I guess there were a few Kraut broadcasters that did my accent about as well I did theirs. The long and short of it is that, after a while, Nazi Newkirk was nearly as big a star as Axis Sally or Lord Haw Haw. I was in a British prison less than a day after I'd gotten out of a German one."

Hogan, for once in his life, was genuinely speechless. He stared at the man. Newkirk just shrugged, unfazed.

"It worked out all right in the end. No one at the court martial was high up enough to know about the operation, and obviously I couldn't explain about the code message, but somehow the officer what was assigned to defend me got his hands on my SS file—all the escape attempts, cooler stays, Gestapo interrogations... the lot. And he used that to convince the tribunal that I hadn't gone over to the Jerries; I'd just broken under their relentless torture." He grinned. "I'd actually thought that was your doing, sir. It sounded like something you'd come up with. A pretty slick way of saving my neck while keeping the real story under wraps, wouldn't you say? If you didn't send that file over, I don't know who did."

Hogan shook his head, numb. "I never knew any of this was happening. I would have been here myself if I had, never mind messing around with files."

"No harm done. Anyhow, that was that. They took my stripes, gave me a dishonorable discharge, told me I was a disgrace to the British Empire, and didn't hang me. Seemed fair enough, all things considered."

" _Fair?!_ Why didn't you call me? I'd put you guys down for every commendation I could think of and a few I made up on the spot—how the hell did that get twisted into _treason_ charges? What were you planning to _do_?"

"There was nothing _to_ do, sir. They had me dead to rights. _I made the broadcast_. After that there wasn't much point in arguing details. Didn't help any that I was on record as having enlisted in the Wehrmacht under my own name, either. The judge had some fun with that one."

Hogan flinched. That had been his idea, too.

"Fact is, sir, I was guilty on all counts. Everything they charged me with, I'd done. Couldn't explain the whys and wherefores of any of it; it was all classified, and the longer the whole thing dragged on, the more likely it was that someone who oughtn't would take a closer look and start putting the pieces together. I figured that the only thing that still mattered was making sure the rest of it stayed quiet. So, when they asked if the recording was me, I copped to it, and then kept my mouth ruddy well shut whatever else they asked."

"You pulled the 'name, rank, and serial number' routine on the RAF? You could have been shot!"

Newkirk looked ironic. "Yes, and back at camp, we called that 'Thursday.' Don't take on so, sir. It's over and done with."

"But why didn't you get in touch with me? Or the brass from the Underground?" Hogan repeated.

"I'd thought _you_ already knew. As for the brass… what was I supposed to do? Ask for General Rapunzel and Group Captain Little Boy Blue? And even if I did have a way of getting them on the line, which I didn't, I didn't need to contact them; there's no way they couldn't've known what was going on. The whole sorry mess was plastered all over the front pages for weeks; they kept stumm because they couldn't do otherwise. Why would they give a tinker's dam about a traitor, and a mere corporal, at that, unless there was something bigger hiding beneath the story they were telling? Couldn't go telling the truth, now could they?"

"So you decided to just sit back and let yourself be railroaded?" Hogan shook his head, suddenly angry. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that, if I was to be railroaded, I bloody well didn't want any company on the train to the gallows. What do you want from me, Col-General? Leave off, all right? I knew what I was doing when I picked up that microphone, and I knew what I would be in for once I got back home, and I made my peace with it a long time ago. This didn't come as a surprise." He cocked his head quizzically. "Just for curiosity's sake, sir. What did you _think_ was going to happen to me? I committed treason, sir; I wasn't exactly expecting the Victoria Cross."

Hogan opened his mouth, closed it again. "I suppose I thought that since the brass knew why you were doing it, the whole thing would be quietly forgotten." A half-truth, at best. The real fact of the matter was that he hadn't thought about it at all. There was always another mission that needed his full attention; he had never had the leisure or the energy to think further ahead—or further behind—than the next minute, the next hour, the next disaster, and the next scheme. He hadn't _wanted_ to think any further than that.

"Makes sense," Newkirk said, accepting that. He looked away. "Anyhow, after Mavis had her say… it just didn't matter anymore."

"When was that?"

"Well, her last letter was about a month after the broadcast. Told me what she thought of me good and proper, she did. Then, after we got back, she visited me in jail so she could speak her piece in person. Told me just how ashamed she was, that the neighbors spat on her in the streets, that she hated me, and she hoped I got what I deserved. Truth be told, sir, by the time she was done telling me what I'd put her through, I hoped so too. I do know she's married and well away from London, and anyone who might've known she had a brother. Not sure where, but she's all right now. I can't do her any more harm."

Hogan had ordered men into battle and to their deaths; it was part of the job, and he was no innocent. Somehow this felt worse. His men had done what they had done without expectation of glory or reward, and none of them had ever been under any illusions on that point, but they deserved better than to be punished for their service, and they sure as hell deserved better than to be disowned by family and country alike. Hogan looked around the dismal little room. _Damn it, Newkirk, you stiff-necked bastard, you were better off at Stalag 13!_

"Why didn't you tell me? I could have… I'd have thought of _something_. Explained things to her, or gotten London to do it."

"And risk the whole operation? Not a chance; London would've laughed in your face if you'd asked. Besides, it was nobody's business but my own. And I've no regrets, either. We did what we had to do to get that message where it could do the most good. War's a dirty job, guv. You've said so often enough yourself. Far worse things happened to far better men than me."

One transmission out of innumerable urgent messages sent to London. One scrap of information among thousands of others. Five minutes on the radio had cost one of his most valued men quite literally everything he had, and all he would say was that he had 'no regrets.' Hogan sighed. "What were you expecting to do about it?"

Newkirk chuckled mirthlessly. "Truth, Guv'ner? I told you from the start that I never expected to survive the war. I always figured that between the risks of the operation and my own charming personality, sooner or later either the Krauts would put a bullet in me or you'd save them the trouble."

Hogan lifted an eyebrow. "I'm hurt you'd think so little of me, Newkirk." He paused, and forced a grin, desperate to lighten the mood. "There were times I wanted to strangle you with my bare hands, but why waste a bullet?"

"Always thinking one step ahead of me, you are," Newkirk said with a cheerful expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. "No wonder they keep promoting you. But that really is about the size of it. I wasn't expecting to actually have to face the music back here. Just my luck to make it home without a scratch, eh?"

"Some guys just can't catch a break," Hogan deadpanned. Newkirk looked like hell, and Hogan didn't know who he was angriest with; the RAF brass who had thrown his man to the wolves, the civilians who had found an easy scapegoat on whom to take out their frustrations, Newkirk, for so passively accepting a damnation he seemed to think he somehow deserved, or, frankly, himself, for setting up the whole row of dominos in the first place.

"Anyhow, things all worked out well enough. Mavis is married and away; new name, new neighbors, new life—she's safe as houses. The foreman doesn't let anyone rough me up on company time, and the landlord here would let a room to the devil incarnate so long as he paid the rent without a fuss, so I'm set."

Hogan, at a loss, and for lack of anything better to do, picked up his glass again. Newkirk flashed a reasonable facsimile of his old quick grin and refilled it. They both knew that Hogan wasn't done with the subject. They also both knew that the subject was probably done with them. After all, the broadcast had happened. The court martial had happened. The people of London had made up their minds about their wayward brother, and so had Mavis. None of those things were going away.

"I'll… I'll talk to the brass. I'll do _something_."

"You'll leave well enough alone, sir, begging your pardon," Newkirk said sharply. "You start kicking up a fuss about a traitor, they'll start wondering why, and you'll only make things worse for the _both_ of us."

"To hell with that! I never left a man in the lurch before, and I'm not starting now. You're no traitor, damn it, and London knows it!"

Newkirk sighed. "Yes, sir, I suspect they do. But yes, sir, I am. Or, at any rate, I am _now_. I have to be, don't I?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look. At one time or another, we were all of us shot down and taken prisoner, right?"

Hogan narrowed his eyes. "Right."

"And six months after you arrived, we didn't just have a tunnel, we had a bleeding bed and breakfast for escapees. Is a man really a prisoner if he's staying of his own free will?"

"Get to the point."

"We stayed prisoners because it was the best way to help win the war. Well, the war's won, but what we did has got to stay secret… and who's going to look past a collaborator to find a saboteur? Leaving me to twist is the best cover we could've asked for." He quirked an eyebrow. "I had six months to think this through. And I'd be bloody shocked to find out that the brass wasn't thinking along the same lines. For once in my life, I'm going to follow orders without an argument. If this is the part they need me to play, then that's who I'll be."

"That's inhuman."

"That's officers for you. Present company excepted, of course."

"Of course," Hogan said dryly.

"It's fine, sir. Really. I did my bit for King and country, and I'm proud of it. In return, they let me live, and I'm grateful. Someone high up dug up that file; if it wasn't you, it was them. It would have been a lot easier for them, and neater all around, to let justice take its course. Far as I'm concerned, we're square. Leave it be, sir."

"Not a chance. Secrecy is one thing; this is damn close to murder. We can explain the broadcast somehow; we'll come up with something that doesn't give away the operation. We've had much wilder things to explain over the years."

"Never mind the explanations. People here aren't going to care what story you cook up; they've had it very rough for a very long time. The ones in uniform were getting shot at; the ones here were getting bombed. Everyone lost mates or relatives. While, so far as they can ever know, good-for-nothing Pete Newkirk spent the war sitting on his arse playing bridge with the Krauts. Can you blame them for being a bit brassed off about it?" He shrugged. "I can't. And I don't. They'll settle down eventually. Don't you worry none. It could've been a lot worse."

 _While good-for-nothing Pete Newkirk spent the war sitting on his arse. God damn it._ There was so much wrong with that single sentence that he could scarcely think to unpack it all. "Even leaving our work out of it, Stalag 13 wasn't exactly a luxury resort," he said evenly.

"You know that. I know that. They don't bloody care. I've already had the 'why did the likes of you make it, and not my mate so-and-so?' conversation more times than I can count and I'm tired of it. They want someone to blame? Fine. I don't care anymore, either. I'm not giving out any more explanations, any more apologies, any more excuses; they're not worth it. I'm just going to wait it out, and I'd be obliged if you'd do the same."

"And while you're waiting, someone's going to break your neck."

"Not likely. I can take care of myself. And if it doesn't settle down in a few months, I'll just rob a bank or something. Can't imagine they're all that patriotic in the clink."

No. God damn it, no. This wasn't happening. "Don't you dare! You were following my orders; this is on _me_. I'm not going to stand for it!"

"Colonel Hogan," Newkirk said, his voice gentle. "Stop it. Please. Just stop it. This isn't your fault; it's not _anyone's_ fault. It's just one more rotten thing to chalk up to a rotten war. Don't take on so."

"Of course it's my fault. I'm the one who made you do the damned broadcast! I'll make it right."

"You weren't holding a gun to my head. I made my own decisions, and I'll live with them. Leave it be."

"Like hell I will. One thing's for sure; you're not staying in this miserable rattrap one minute longer. You have anything here you want to take with you?"

"And just where would you suggest I go?"

Hogan scrambled for inspiration. "How about America? No one would recognize your voice there. You'd be safe."

Newkirk gritted his teeth. "Can't, sir. They pulled my passport. Presumably so I couldn't run off to Argentina with the rest of the Nazis."

Hogan bit his tongue hard. "I see. Were they _trying_ to get you killed?"

"Probably," Newkirk said. "Puts paid to any number of problems, and nobody who matters has to dirty their hands none."

Machiavelli had been an amateur. "This isn't the world we fought for," Hogan said quietly.

"Maybe so, maybe no. But either way, it's the world we've got." Newkirk patted Hogan's shoulder soothingly. "Eggs and omelets, Guv. It's all right. Just… just forget it. Go home and forget all this."

"You know I'm not going to do that."

"I know that you're going to have to. But I will ask you for one favor."

"What is it?"

"For the love of God, _please_ don't tell any of the others about this." He looked ashamed. "I don't think I could stand it if they were… if I had to imagine their… well, what good would it do to worry any of them about things they can't change?"

Hogan sighed. "All right, Newkirk. I promise. I won't talk to anyone from Stalag 13. Yet."

"Appreciated," he said, and took a deep breath. "You should probably go now."

Hogan glanced at his watch, then, reluctantly, got to his feet. "Yeah, I should." At the door, though, he turned back. "Newkirk… I'm going to fix this, okay? I need you to believe that I'm going to make this right."

"You can't. But I do believe that you'll try," Newkirk said. As the door closed, Hogan's sharp ears caught a murmured, "Have done since '42."

*.*.*.*

Author's note: Apologies for not resolving the cliffhanger from chapter 4, but we've got a fair amount of flashback to get through in order to make the rest of the present-day story make sense. The comment about enlisting in the German army was a reference to 'The Klink Commandos,' and the rest of it is, of course, the aftermath of 'Is There A Traitor In The House;' several radio propagandists were actually hanged on treason charges after the war, and I'm not the first writer to point out that there would certainly have been consequences, either legal, social, or both.


	6. Chapter 6

Hogan's original reason for being in London in the first place had been to attend a series of strategy meetings with RAF brass; the shooting part of the war might have been over, but not much else had changed, and that included the staff. He'd worked for and with these men for years; he'd been on friendly terms with a few of them, and on cordial, professional terms with most of the rest. He'd performed miracles for them. They knew it.

And every single one of them had lied to him, at least by omission. For months, if not longer. His mood was anything but conciliatory as he braced himself for a confrontation that had not been on the original schedule and was nonetheless not about to be postponed a second longer.

General Chesterton had known Hogan and his team for some time… or, at least, he had known 'Papa Bear' and his associates. Over the radio. At a very safe distance. They were sets of fingers tapping out coded messages, or, occasionally, tinny voices on the receiver. They were chess pieces and code names and accomplished objectives. Hogan he had met with in person on a few hurried occasions, but for the most part they had never been in any sort of proximity to the General, who had been in London, hundreds of miles from Stalag 13. And, he reflected, watching the American storm past his secretary, incandescent with fury, he had not appreciated what a mercy that had been until now.

Hogan was radiating enough hostility to kill the houseplants, and possibly his aide. But then again, it was probably better that he was physically in the office, hostility and all, because if they _had_ tried to discuss this over radio or telephone, the general mused, it was a near-certainty that the equipment would have melted into slag three sentences into the conversation.

Hogan didn't bother knocking. "General. I need to speak with you, and this can't wait. Would you happen to have a moment?"

"Of course, old chap. Do come in," Chesterton said urbanely. "Is there a problem?"

"There sure is! For one thing, I don't appreciate being left out of the loop when it comes to my men."

He sighed. And didn't bother pointing out that they were no longer 'his' men. "I see. Don't tell me; let me guess. This is about Peter Newkirk."

"Yes, damn it! What's the big idea? He got better treatment out of the Nazis!"

"General Hogan, I'm really not sure what you want me to say. We didn't file the charges; that was done by an officer unaware of the man's wartime activities, and once we were apprised of the situation, we handled it as best we could."

" _Handled it?_ By pinning a steak to his back and throwing him to the wolves? You had him cashiered! That's really the best you could come up with?"

"As opposed to having him hanged? Yes, it bally well is. We did what we could, General." Chesterton's voice had dropped a few degrees. "Because I assure you, that option was very much on the table. At the risk of sounding callous, there are bigger things at stake here than one semi-reformed criminal. You're too close; it's affecting your judgment. You'd do well to remember what we're really working for."

"I'd _thought_ we were working for a world that believed in something at least approximating justice," Hogan snapped. _One semi-reformed criminal. Good God. Is that really all they see?_

"And we arranged for as close an approximation of justice as was possible. I'm sure he understands that, even if you don't. If that's all, General Hogan, I really do have things to do today. And, if you'll forgive me for mentioning it, so do you."

 _They don't care. Newkirk was right; they really don't care. Everything we did—everything **he** did—and still they just don't care._ "You can't be serious. You know—you _know!_ —what we were doing over there. You know exactly why he made that goddamned speech, and you know how many lives it saved! And still you're willing to let this happen? To one of your own? How do you _sleep_ at night?"

Chesterton's lips compressed into a hard line. "Since you asked so nicely, General Hogan, I'll tell you the truth. I _don't_ sleep all that well, and I don't know if I ever will again. The war was a nightmare; you know that better than anyone. But the aftermath is no less appalling—and you know _that_ , too! I don't have the time, the energy, or the right to become too concerned with one man's troubles, not at the expense of millions of others in far worse straits. And you don't have the right to demand it of me."

"So, you're… what? Punishing him for not having suffered enough?" Hogan clenched his jaw hard enough that he thought his teeth might snap. "Well, let me put your mind at ease on that point. He's getting the living daylights beaten out of him every time he opens the damn door. One of these days, and it's going to be soon, someone's going to hit him just that little bit too hard, and you'll have one less problem on your plate."

"And that will be a matter for the police, not the RAF," Chesterton said. "I really am at a loss as to what you expect me to do about it."

"What I expect you to—! How about giving him a new identity? How about giving him back his passport so he can get the hell out of your ingrate country before someone bashes his brains in? How about explaining the whole mess to the only family he's got? How about pretending for five consecutive minutes that loyal service deserves some kind of reciprocation?"

"General Hogan, be reasonable! War demands a few sacrifices—and if you think that the wars are over simply because the guns are silent, you're a fool. Doing any of those things just at this moment would be _noticed_. Acquitting him was risky enough, especially once the damned journalists got involved. We did what we could. But we can't afford to draw any more attention to him—or to ourselves—than we already have. Think like a strategist."

"I _am_ a strategist! And no matter how bad things got, none of _my_ plans ever involved shrugging my shoulders and saying 'Tough luck, pal,' whenever things got a little sticky—"

"I'm well aware of your prowess, General Hogan," he interrupted. "In fact, that very prowess is the reason you were invited here, and why you were asked to take part in the strategy session that was scheduled to begin ten minutes ago. I consider this discussion tabled."

Hogan glowered, but turned to leave. At the door, he growled, half threat and half promise, "Tabled, sure. But not closed."

Chesterton looked accusingly at the wall for a solid minute, then picked up the telephone, dialed. "I withdraw my objections," he said, with no preamble. He listened as the person on the other end of the line responded; his expression didn't change. "Yes, very well. Bring him in."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Hogan controlled himself well enough at the strategy sessions. His contributions to the discussions were polite, intelligent, and insightful; his demeanor was professional and pleasant. He smiled genially at men he had every intention of confronting when there was a spare minute.

He concentrated his attention on the matter at hand. Well… ninety-five percent of his attention was on the matter at hand.

One or two brain cells, though, were entirely occupied with the Newkirk Situation. He let them churn away, disregarded, while the rest of him was conscientiously doing his job. Inspiration had always struck before, usually just in the nick of time. It would happen this time, too. He was sure of it.

Ninety-five percent sure of it.

*.*.*.*.*.*

They were military policemen; there was just no mistaking them for anything else. Humorless, implacable, well-muscled, and dispassionate, and the wooden expressions on their oddly similar faces made it quite clear that protestations of innocence would fall on very deaf ears. Two of them, and—yes, of course—his landlord was strutting along with them, drunk on his own importance. He looked even more ratlike and slovenly than usual next to their spit-polished hypercompetence. There wasn't a great deal of doubt as to why they were there.

 _Well, that didn't take long. Oh, Colonel, didn't I **tell** you how it would be if you stuck your oar in? Thanks for trying, Colonel Hogan, I'm grateful you cared, but you never had a prayer. Don't take it too hard, all right? Not your fault. And maybe it's better this way._

Doors had opened up throughout the tenement. Necks craned for a better look, and dozens of hissing whispers bounced off the discolored plaster ceilings; this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in the building, and no one wanted to miss a minute of it.

Newkirk glanced at the soldiers, then at the gawkers up and down the corridor with an insolent, do-your-worst smile playing around the corners of his mouth. The smile didn't falter as he turned to the landlord. "Looks like I'm going to have to take my congé. Sorry for the short notice."

"Good riddance, traitor," he said.

"And there we are. All formalities duly observed," Newkirk said, with only a hint of bitterness staining the words as the smile faded. Slowly, deliberately, he held up empty hands in surrender.

They were relatively gentle about parading him past his snickering neighbors and pushing him into the back of their vehicle. No cuffs, either, which he considered quite gracious of them. One had to appreciate the little things.

*.*.*.*.*.*

One table. Two chairs. No windows. Scuffed wooden floors and plain, blank walls painted a depressing shade of beige. Newkirk looked around the place with the air of a connoisseur and decided that he'd seen far worse interrogation rooms in his time.

He also decided that, one way or the other, this was the last interrogation room he was ever _going_ to see. Enough was enough, fair was fair, and this was simultaneously more than enough and not remotely fair.

He plunked himself down in what looked like the better-padded of the two chairs, made a disgusted face, and circled around the table to sit on the other one. After considering its merits for a moment, he shook his head sadly, and switched back to the first. The door opened.

"Good day, Mr. Newkirk," said the young officer. "Before we begin, I must apologize for the way in which you were brought here."

"Apologize? Whatever for? Who doesn't enjoy being dragged at gunpoint into a Black Maria? Why, it was just like old times." Newkirk's smile was warm, friendly… and utterly terrifying. "What's a little police brutality among friends, after all?"

The officer colored a bit, but kept on going. "I'm sure you're wondering why you're here."

"Are you really? _I'm_ sure that I would find it difficult to care less. But I'm also sure that you're going to tell me in any case, so it doesn't much matter. Please proceed."

The color deepened. "To make a long story short, Mr. Newkirk, there's a very important matter afoot, and we would very much appreciate your assistance. We have need of your specific skills."

"Naturally, I'm always happy to be of service to our boys in uniform. If it's about that loose button on your cuff, well, I wasn't sure if it was manners to mention it, but I can fix that for you in two shakes. Letting out the waistband of your trousers might take a tad longer, but when I'm through no one will even notice those few extra pounds."

"I do not—that is, I was not referring to your tailoring skills," said the officer, hopelessly outmatched, and becoming increasingly aware of that fact. "I am referring to the work you were doing during the war."

"That would be the work you tried to hang me for, is that correct?"

"That was regrettable. But for the good of your country—"

"Either you're a blithering idiot or you think I am. Every time I do something for the good of my country, I end up worse off than I was before. Enlisting landed me in a Luftstalag. Espionage brought me to the gallows. I'd be very interested to hear why you seem to think that puts me in _your_ debt, not the other way around."

"Well, we _did_ provide the court with the particulars of your defense."

"Yes. You got me out of the dock you put me in, and you only did it because I'm no use to you dead. Forgive me if I don't seem sufficiently grateful. Try again."

The officer lost his temper. And his tact. "Because you don't have a choice. Look at yourself, Newkirk! Is this really what you _want_? Do you _like_ grubbing in the dirt all day? Do you _enjoy_ the beatings and abuse? How long do you think you can keep this up?"

He set his jaw. "As long as I have to, and fifteen minutes beyond that for good measure."

"Do you even believe that yourself? How long do you really think you can live like this before you're drinking yourself numb every night? How long before you go back to your old tricks, either because you need the money or just because you're hoping that in prison, the guards _might_ protect you from the other inmates? How long before you come to the conclusion that the rope was the better option after all?"

"How long before you decide that this is a waste of both your time and mine?" Newkirk wasn't about to give an inch. He also wasn't about to let on that he'd already considered the merits of all three alternatives on more than one occasion.

"Oh, spare me the adventure-serial repartee. Be reasonable for once."

"Why? You said it yourself. How much lower do you really think you can bring me? What have I got left for you to take away?"

"There _is_ your life," he said, as though he was considering it for the first time.

"I wondered when you were going to get around to that," said Newkirk. "Well done. Three whole minutes. I'll rephrase. What have I got left for you to take away that I would actually mind losing?"

"You're that eager to die?"

"Whether I am or not, the big scary threats are a non-starter. I didn't scare that easily _before_ I spent half a decade with a Nazi boot on my neck, and I promise you, you don't scare me now."

"Brave words."

"No. Simple facts. You're not going to kill me and we both know it," Newkirk said. "If you wanted me dead, I'd've been shown the inside of a white hood months ago. You kept me alive because you want something from me. Just like pretty much everyone else I've ever met. And the answer's no."

"How can you say that? You haven't even heard the question!"

"Don't need to. I was willing enough to _risk_ my life, but I'm bloody well tired of being punished for not having had the courtesy to die. I'm in no mood to do you bastards any more favors. You've got nothing to offer me, and there's nothing more you can take from me, so that puts paid to bribery and threats."

"Does it really? Are you certain? I do have one other incentive to offer," he said.

Newkirk waited for him to continue; he didn't. After a long moment, he said "Well?"

"Mavis," he said simply.

There was no doubt that Newkirk had been angry throughout most of the conversation. That he'd been angry before they'd started, to say nothing of betrayed, bitterly resigned, and hopeless. But he had been sufficiently in control of himself to leaven that anger with the sardonic humor he'd been using as a shield for most of his life.

That humor vanished between one breath and the next. Newkirk's voice became cold, dangerous. "If you so much as say her name again, one of us won't be leaving this room. She has _nothing_ to do with this. You do what you like to me, but you leave her the hell out of it."

A flash of genuine incomprehension flickered across the officer's face, then was replaced with shock. "Good God, Newkirk, I wasn't threatening her! _Or_ you!"

"Well, this _is_ a threat. You're leaving the poor girl alone, or else I—"

"Newkirk! Listen to me! If you do what we ask… we'll tell her what you were _really_ doing during the war."

Newkirk's face stayed impassive. His eyes did not.

He pressed his advantage. "Not just the broadcast. Everything. My word on that, Newkirk. If you undertake this mission, we _will_ prove to her that her brother was no traitor. She won't have to be ashamed any longer."

It was emotional blackmail; he recognized that. And he didn't miss the use of the past tense, either. But he had to hand it to them; they knew exactly what buttons to press and what strings to tug. Masterful, really. Shameless, but masterful. Yes, they were good.

He was better.

"I said leave her out of this," he said. "Let her hate me. You're not dragging her into your web of lies and secrets and plots. Not on my account, you're not. We're done here."

"We're done when I say we're done," said the officer, his voice hardening. "You're in no position to be dictating to me; or did you forget that?"

"Bluffing with no cards in your hand again. Did you forget that you can't force me to say anything I don't want to say? Once I leave this room, if I decide I don't want to keep to your script, things could get right messy. Could spill out all _kinds_ of trouble for you and yours."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Why not? If I'm to be a traitor, perhaps I might as well _be_ a traitor. We're done. I don't like you, I don't trust you, and I wouldn't work for you if my life depended on it."

"Perhaps it does."

"Oh, for the love of—look, just write out whatever you want me to confess to and I'll sign it. Or better yet—" He reached across the desk and, snake-quick, snatched a pen and steno pad from where they'd lain, forgotten, for the duration of the interview. He flicked to a blank sheet, scribbled his name at the bottom and shoved the pad back across the desk. "There. Write in anything you like, so long as I don't have to see you again. Do what you want. I don't care. Lock me away. Gibbet me in Trafalgar Square if it makes you happy. Just leave."

The officer—Newkirk still didn't know his name—visibly bit back a sour rejoinder of some sort, then abruptly stood up and left.

The door slammed shut behind him like a rifle shot. Newkirk flinched—minutely, but unmistakably—at the sound, and closed his eyes.

*.*.*.*.*.*


	7. Chapter 7

London, 1969

Ten people had known the details of Newkirk's final mission. Just ten. And that included Stephens, who, for the time being, was not under suspicion. There was no logical reason that a double agent would go to all the trouble of importing a bunch of foreign ex-spies and feeding them a line of bull about the possible existence of a double agent, not when there were so many easier explanations for the tragedy. Newkirk had spent most of his life on the razor's edge; there was, quite simply, nothing shocking in the idea that the odds had finally caught up with him. Stephens might well have contacted them to shed a crocodile tear or two and offer his condolences for old times' sake, but why invent reasons for the heroes to investigate if he were the culprit? It wasn't just pointless, it was _stupid_.

Well… Stephens was not _officially_ under suspicion, because logically it made no sense. But Hogan had not survived three years of espionage work without developing a finely honed sense of paranoia, and this one was a no-brainer. Anyone who had even the slightest familiarity with detective fiction knew that the likeliest suspect was always going to be the least likely one.

He'd used the routine often enough himself. Who would ever suspect that the harmless little old lady hobbling down the street was smuggling so much highly classified information that 'her' girdle could technically be classified as a bookshelf? Who would glance at the drunken imbecile making a fool of himself and think that he even knew how to _spell_ 'unobtrusive,' let alone that he was making himself invisible? Who would look at a ragtag bunch of prisoners and see the best sabotage outfit on either side of the war?

No, Stephens was so obviously above suspicion that he was at the top of Hogan's list of likely candidates, and his snotty little adjutant wasn't far behind, although that was less a matter of evidence-based reasoning and more about immediate and personal dislike. Gut instincts were only that, but there was no sense in ignoring them. Sometimes your subconscious mind knew more than you did.

"The idea is that someone's leaking information. You said only nine other guys knew about this, so chances are at least one of the nine is our rat," Hogan summed up, keeping himself in his chair by force of will. It was so much _easier_ to think on the fly when you were on your feet. "I won't insult your security by suggesting that anyone else might have been able to break in and steal the info, although I trust you're already checking on that."

"We are," Stephens said briefly. "But nothing will come of it. The data was not stolen by any outside agent. It just isn't possible."

"Newkirk could have done it," Carter said, not quite under his breath.

"No, he couldn't. Newkirk helped _design_ our current security system," Stephens said.

"Really?" Carter looked impressed. "How?"

Stephens smiled faintly. "He broke into the building. The next day, he told us where our defenses were inadequate. We fixed them. And then he broke into the building again. And again. It started to get _embarrassing._ We kept assigning him to 'steal' dummy information, in however many ways he could think of to do it; he kept on succeeding. For months. We didn't stop until he was consistently being caught."

"So you Newkirk-proofed MI6?" Kinch smiled a bit, despite himself. There was just no way on earth that Newkirk hadn't enjoyed making his employers look foolish.

"As best we could," Stephens said. "So I think you'll agree that there's very little chance that anyone without the proper authorization could have obtained the intelligence."

"So it's one of the nine," Hogan repeated. "One or more; always the chance that a couple of them are working together, but let's start out assuming that there's only one and go on from there. Now, everyone out there knows basically who and what we are, right?"

"More or less," Stephens said. "That is, they know that you met Newkirk during the war, and that you were a crack intelligence team. Any further details would have been drawn from Newkirk's tall tales, and were probably taken with a sizeable grain of salt. If they were believed at all."

"Why? What sort of stories does he…" Carter caught himself, and bit his lip, hard. Wrong tense.

"I imagine that the one about stealing the tank raised a few eyebrows," LeBeau said smoothly. "Or perhaps the hot air balloon?"

"The funny part is, he probably had to tone _down_ a few of the crazier details," said Kinch. "There are times I barely believe them myself, and I was _there_. What's the play, Colonel?"

"They know that we were spies, they know that if you opened a dictionary to the word 'unorthodox' they'd see a picture of us, and they know that we're decades out of practice. Whoever it is, they're going to take one look at us and think exactly the same thing as Moore; that we're a bunch of grief-stricken, over-the-hill idiots who still think it's 1944."

"Er… I think I resent that _,_ Colonel."

"How do you think _I_ feel?" Hogan replied. "But we were willing to be good little prisoners for the Nazis; we can stand to be deluded old duffers for MI6."

"How does that help?" asked Carter.

"Because, whether or not they believed everything Newkirk told them, they'll have at least gotten the idea that our operations were always straight out of left field. So our fink will be trying to expect the unexpected, which is unnerving enough. But he'll also think that we're all rusty enough that he won't have much trouble dodging our trap. A few bits of meaningless code, a requisition list of the most bizarre items we can think of, maybe an overheard telephone conversation or two, and with any luck, our mole will be so busy laughing in his sleeve that he won't notice the trap clanging shut behind him."

"So the idea is that he'll be so busy looking for a gonculator, he'll give himself away?" Kinch thought about that. "Could work."

"And while we're doing that, Stephens, it might not be a bad idea if you were to cook up more of that dummy intel. If nine different people get nine different fake reports, it could be very interesting to see which one of those juicy scoops mysteriously finds its way to the bad guys."

Stephens nodded slowly. "That might be the best solution all around. I'm not sure I like the other part of the plan, especially not the bit about you setting yourselves up as bait." He smiled humorlessly. "If anything were to happen to you chaps, I imagine that Newkirk would come storming back in here, with a halo wrapped around his hand like a set of brass knuckles, and brain me with his harp."

"If that's all it would take to bring him back, boy! I'd shoot myself in the foot here and now," Carter said.

LeBeau reached out, put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "As would I, Andre." He looked at Stephens. "As would we all. I, for one, like the _Colonel's_ plan."

"I'm in, too," said Kinch. "Anyone want me to build them a radio hidden in a cigarette lighter or something?"

"Afraid we have those already, but I'm sure we can come up with something even more unbelievable. All right, General Hogan; you've talked me into it. Let's _get_ the bastard." Stephens' smile faded. "I must say, though, that I can still hardly believe that one of my lads would do such a thing. I recruited half of them myself, and they've all proven themselves a dozen times over."

Hogan understood, intellectually, the devastating effect of that sort of treachery, although he'd never been forced to deal with it firsthand, thank God. And he understood the unspoken half of the trouble even more clearly. _If I didn't see this coming, what else did I miss?_ There wasn't much comfort to offer.

Stephens shook himself, snapping back to the business at hand. "Anyhow. You may as well come out and meet them all. We were planning to hold a little memorial service this Sunday, so if you're ready to begin pretending to be incompetent, he'll have a few days in which to fret about what you might be planning."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

A memorial service… there had been a few of those back at Stalag 13. Not too many after Hogan's arrival—not to mention Lange's departure—but there had been a few. LeBeau remembered one in particular.

The tunnel entrance cracked open. Late. The whole barracks had been pretending to themselves and each other that everything was fine and they weren't worried, and none of them had been fooled for a moment, so there were three people at the entrance almost before Kinch's head poked into the room.

He didn't come up all the way. "Colonel Hogan," he said flatly. "You'd better come down here. We've got trouble. Goons in the woods. We lost them, but they got off a few shots."

There was blood smeared on his face and shirt.

 _No. No, no, no…_

Newkirk half-fell out of his bunk, supported himself on the bedframe before his knees could buckle underneath him. "Where's Carter?" he croaked. "And Nolan? They—" and he went into a violent coughing spasm before he could finish the question. Illness had hit the entire camp like a tidal wave; Newkirk was far from the only man who could scarcely stand on his feet for more than a few minutes at a time. Klink, in a show of humanity he only hoped General Burkhalter never learned about, had suspended all roll calls for the time being in favor of indoor head counts, regular bed checks, and prayer. To his credit, he had given the order before Hogan had even had the chance to convince him that he had been intending to do so all along.

In any other camp, the chaos would, frankly, have been a grand set-up for a mass escape, if there had been enough healthy prisoners to even consider staging one. As it was, the medics were living on adrenaline and coffee, and conscripting anyone they could get their hands on to help tend the sick. There had been only seven casualties so far, and most of the other cases seemed past the crisis point, (which fact Wilson attributed in equal parts to divine intervention and their own pure cussed stubbornness, because it sure as hell wasn't because of the freezing conditions, the scanty food, or the complete and utter lack of medicines,) but to say that the operation as a whole was working with a skeleton crew was to gravely insult the entire concept of bones.

Kinch shook his head. "Carter's okay. Nolan, though… we need Wilson."

"LeBeau, go get him," Hogan ordered. If there was going to be visible blood, the last thing they needed was an additional patient. Getting LeBeau out of the way was only sensible.

" _Oui, mon Colonel_ ," LeBeau said, and darted for the door.

"Colonel," Kinch said softly. "I don't think there's any hurry."

Hogan closed his eyes for a moment. _Damn! Damn this war, damn this waste of lives..._ "I'm coming down," he said, not letting his voice exude anything but calm. _And damn me for sending a green kid out there. I knew he wasn't ready for this._

Carter was down in the tunnel, his face very white under the black grease paint and the blood smears. He'd dragged Nolan to one of the 'guest rooms,' and placed him on a cot, but Hogan could see in an instant that Kinch had been right. There was no hurry.

 _It could have been me,_ came the treacherous thought. A familiar whisper at the back of the mind, a fear with all the paint worn off from overuse, so much was it a part of their every waking moment. What were the odds, really? Stand six inches to the left or one extra step to the right. Better aim from the Kraut or slower reflexes from the saboteur. Step on a twig or turn your ankle on a loose rock. They all thought it, every time they went for a midnight stroll, every time they heard a shot fired. _It could have been me._

 _And it still might._

Hogan approached the cot. Carter was standing at its foot, staring at Nolan's unmarked face, because it was easier than looking at the bloodied torso, and looking away entirely seemed somehow disrespectful. Kinch followed Hogan, just over his left shoulder, and, predictably, Newkirk stumbled along in the rear rather than returning to his sickbed. If he was fighting for breath, and more than occasionally using the tunnel wall to stay upright, the others pretended not to notice.

LeBeau arrived with Wilson, who went immediately to the bed, but after one look at his patient, he dropped his medical kit, unopened, on the ground. LeBeau distracted himself by ducking under Newkirk's arm, taking some of his weight before the other man could collapse, and mused that it was a mark of how weak he really was that he allowed it. Nobody said a word as the medic bent to his grim work.

"Yeah," Wilson said gruffly. "He's gone. Bullet went clear through him; he was probably dead before he hit the ground. Poor kid never had a chance." He turned away, defeated and weary. "Probably didn't even have time to feel any pain. If there's nothing else you need, I'm heading back to my rack."

"Thanks," Hogan said to the medic's retreating back. Slowly, the men climbed back up the ladder and into the barracks to share the grim news.

 _It could have been me. It should have been me_. They were all thinking it. All of them. Logical or not. None of them was thinking it more sincerely—or less logically—than Newkirk. _If I hadn't been goldbricking with this bloody sniffle, I'd have been out there tonight. I should've been out there._ He went into another coughing fit, and if the phlegm in his palm was ever so slightly red when he caught his breath and lowered his hand, it only made him angrier with himself. _Weak, useless little gutter rat... well, Peter, old son, I hope you're proud of yourself. Lounging in bed like the queen of Sheba while a kid who barely knew his arse from his elbow took the bullet with your name on it._

Hogan gritted his teeth. "All right, then. Plan KIA. Carter, get the wire cutters. LeBeau, you go handle the dogs. I'll need a partner to attempt an 'escape' with Nolan. At _best_ , that means cooler time."

"I volun—" A long spate of coughing, and a muttered 'God damn it.' "I volunteer, sir. Should've been me out there tonight anyway."

"Newkirk, you can barely stand up straight, let alone make a run for it. Not even Klink would buy that one. Sorry, but I need someone else."

"I'll do it, sir," said Mills. He met Hogan's eyes. "We were friends. I'd like to do this for him."

"Good man. Get ready to move."

Carter handed him the wire cutters. "Richter is in tower four tonight, and he's so nearsighted he couldn't hit the broad side of a barn," he said. "That's probably the best place to try to break through.

"Okay. Garlotti, you go stuff some unconvincing lumps under their blankets, and everyone else get back to bed. Remember, none of you knew that they were going to make a break for it tonight," Hogan ordered. "Mills, do you need a hand carrying Nolan to the fence?"

"No, I don't think so, sir. Just need a hand up the ladder, and I can get him from there." He stuffed his feet into his boots, and pulled his coat a fraction tighter. "Just one thing, sir."

"What is it?"

"The funeral will be while I'm in the cooler, but… well… Postpone the wake until I can be there, all right?"

Hogan nodded. "Of course. We'll wait until you can be there to say your goodbyes with the rest of us."

Mills nodded, because he didn't quite trust his voice not to shake, and ducked down the tunnel entrance. It slid shut behind him like a coffin lid.

The kriegies in Barracks Two went back to bed, but not to sleep. Not even the sickest of them. They just waited, silently, alone in the dark. Just waited until the alarms began to blare, until the dogs began barking, until the rifles began to fire. Waited for Klink's perfect record to be maintained. Waited for a young man to officially become an honorable casualty of war, not a failed saboteur. Waited to see if it would be one young man… or two.

There are very few things it is harder to do than wait.


	8. Chapter 8

The office was rather full of people, all of whom looked so innocently busy that Hogan was certain that they were doing anything but what they were pretending to do. No, these were spies, after all; if they hadn't been laser-focused on whatever was happening in that conference room, they wouldn't have deserved the name.

One desk was neat and orderly, and conspicuously empty. There were few personal touches to differentiate it from any of the others, but what little there was stood out like a beacon. The battered deck of cards in the mail tray, for example, was a dead giveaway. But the real clincher was the faded photograph in a silver frame, one that Hogan recognized immediately; he had a copy of the same picture on his own desk. He also knew for a fact that Kinch had a copy on his mantelpiece, that Carter's had pride of place on the wall of his living room, and that LeBeau's was on the étagère in his parlor. It was a picture of the whole team, proud and triumphant and elated, at the gate of Stalag 13. The _right_ side of the gate.

Liberation Day, 1945. It had been, quite possibly, the best day of his life. It was the first day of freedom—real, honest-to-God freedom—any of them had known in years.

And for the first time, it suddenly occurred to Hogan that it wasn't only the first day of freedom Newkirk had known in more than five years. It was also the last.

He dragged his attention back to the present before the memories got too overpowering, not without some effort.

"I'd like you to meet my team," Stephens was saying politely. "You've met Moore; these are Donnelly, Friemann, Griffith, Stuart, and Brewer."

There was only one woman in the group. Thirtysomething and plain, with long dark hair pulled into an unadorned knot at the nape of her neck and a ragged tear in the collar of her oxford shirt, she stood and offered her hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she said. "I'm Katherine Friemann; please, do call me Kay. I've heard so much about all of you, I feel as though we're already old friends, and friends shouldn't have to stand on ceremony."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, too," Hogan said, and took her hand. "He did mention a colleague called 'K' on a number of occasions; I'll admit I assumed that was a code name." He had also assumed that 'K' was male, a misapprehension he planned to keep to himself.

A smile stole across her face, and it transformed her; just for a moment, she was beautiful. "No blame to you there, General, it's a logical assumption. After all, we do have a 'C,' not to mention all those Q-devices lying about."

"From the very few details I was allowed to hear, the two of you worked together quite a bit. And in quite a few different places," Hogan said.

She grinned again. "Well, so far as official recordkeeping, the general public, and, especially, my family are concerned, I'm the indefatigable Girl Friday to a nice old gent in the foreign service. Globe-trotting is all part of the job. Ostensibly, I spend half my time managing his appointment calendar and the other half brewing tea."

"And in reality, you're a spy?" Kinch asked.

"And assassin," she said serenely. "When necessary, which, fortunately, it usually isn't."

Hogan blinked a couple of times. "Well. He, ah… he definitely didn't mention _that_ little detail."

"Heh. I wonder if he was trying to spare my reputation or take the credit. But to answer your original question, General, it's not a code. I've had my share of code names and aliases and cover identities over the years, but that isn't one of them."

"I hope those code names are a little less ridiculous than they were in our day. There's just no good way to introduce yourself as 'Thumbelina' and keep a straight face," said Kinch.

"Being the 'Little Pig' wasn't much fun either," Carter said.

"I thought you _liked_ that assignment," said Hogan. "You got to huff and puff and blow their bridges down."

" _That_ part was fine," Carter said. "It was the jokes about going 'wee wee wee' all the way home that got kind of annoying after a while."

"And we never _did_ have roast beef, now that I come to think of it," said Kinch.

"That was for very good reasons," LeBeau said. "For one thing, trying to cook a roast beef on that horrible stove would have been impossible. For another, if I did manage it, Schultz would have invited himself to dinner and eaten half of it."

"Only half?" asked Hogan.

"And besides," said Kay. "According to Jack, you wouldn't have made Yorkshire puddings even if someone was holding a gun to your head. And what good is a Sunday roast without them?"

"Jack? Who's Jack?" asked Carter.

There was a horrible silence. The forced normality they had all been trying to maintain with attempts at banter collapsed. Finally, Hogan cleared his throat. "Newkirk hasn't used his real name since the war. Didn't you know that?"

Carter bit his lip. "Well, yeah, I guess so. He told me never to send anything to him directly, and every now and then he'd send me a new fake name and mailing address to use. But I thought that was just part of his cover. I didn't think that his _friends_ were actually calling him any of those."

"He's been Jack Selden as long as I've known him," said another one of the agents. "And that's since '58. It wasn't a cover identity; it was just his name."

LeBeau glowered at the floor. No, it wasn't.

The agent tried to smile. "But I assure you, I really did consider him a friend, no matter what name he was using. Hell, he introduced me to my _wife_."

Hogan met the faint smile with one of his own. "He always was a bit of a romantic."

"He was that," he agreed. "I'm Donnelly, by the way. Neil Donnelly. And I wish I was meeting you chaps under any other circumstances than these."

"Me too," said Carter, glancing at Hogan. "But, boy! I can tell you one thing for sure; we're going to catch the dirty louse that sold him out, and—"

" _Carter!_ " Hogan snapped, with the same weary irritation in his voice as always.

And as always, Carter tried to fix it. "No, I don't mean that _we're_ going to catch the rat, not 'we' as in the four of us, or anything like that. No sirree. Just that 'we' in general, you know, the good guys, are going to catch him. Or her. Not to be sexist; I mean, I support women's liberation, so it could be a 'her.' Or even a 'them.' "

Back at Stalag 13, all fresh-faced youth and golly-gee-whiz heartlands innocence, Carter had come across as guileless and transparent. Nearly thirty years later, he still did, with silvering hair and those clear blue eyes only magnified behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a Norman Rockwell image of everyone's favorite uncle. Appearances had been deceiving back then, and even more so nowadays.

But, as always, he sure knew how to pick up a cue and run with it, Hogan thought, watching the agents' collective ears prick up. All right; the rat was officially warned that the Unsung Heroes were out of mothballs and on the case; now to watch him run himself to ground.

Moore's expression froze again, although his lips tightened into a disapproving line. He'd already been reprimanded once that day for telling them, essentially, to mind their business while the professionals handled the affair, and it was obvious both that his opinion had not changed and that he was not about to risk another telling-off by saying so.

Kay's eyes went icy, too, and her voice calm and low. Suddenly it was no longer at all difficult to picture her with a sniper rifle in her hands or a garrote in her pocket. "Oh, you can be certain we'll find him. I'll find the swine if I have to quarter every sty in Europe on foot. I've done it before. He'd best hope that someone else gets their hands on him before I do, is all."

Donnelly put a brotherly hand on her arm; she shook him off impatiently and drew back a pace or two. He sighed, inaudibly, and let her go. "She speaks for all of us, I think. We all want revenge. However little it helps in the long run, God help me, it's all I've thought about since I heard the news."

"Do you chaps really think there's anything you can do to help us figure out what went wrong?" asked another agent. "Perhaps, General, you still have contacts in Germany…?"

"Me?" Hogan looked, almost convincingly, taken aback. "I haven't had anything to do with the place since we left Stalag 13. And hoped I never would again. I left my cloak and dagger behind a long time ago, and never looked back."

Moore relaxed minutely; Hogan wouldn't have seen it if he wasn't looking for it. _Gotcha_ , he thought vindictively. _It'll be a blindfold and a cigarette for this, and it's better than you deserve…_

"I see," said the agent—Griffith, as it happened- sounding disappointed. "So if you don't mind my asking… what were you thinking you could do?"

"Us? We can do what he told us to do," Hogan said. "We're going to find a bar, and we're going to toast his memory until we can't recall our own names, let alone his. We're going to remember him the way he should be remembered. We're going to say goodbye to a friend and a hero. What the hell else _can_ we do?"

"Know you what earth has lost tonight?" Donnelly asked. He looked at his hands, cleared his throat before continuing. "What heavy gold of tales untold we bury with his bones."

Stephens raised an eyebrow. "Chesterton?" he asked.

"Chesterton," Donnelly agreed. "That last verse now… I don't mind saying it's been running through my head a fair amount these last couple of days, since we heard. That bit about 'seeing the world as it truly is' always reminded me of Jack anyway. And doubly so now."

"What are you talking about?" asked Carter.

"It's from a poem," said Donnelly. "About a man facing a fight he knows he can't possibly hope to win. But he's not afraid, and he has no regrets, either. I don't know all of it by heart, but the last bit goes something like 'Tonight I die the death of God! The stars shall die with me. One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet's breath; You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in'…" He trailed off, not finishing the rhyme. After a moment, with a voice that wasn't quite as steady as it obviously wanted to be, he added, "The title of the poem is 'The Last Hero.'"

No one said anything for a moment.

Moore broke the silence. "Of course, the man in the poem was an utter scoundrel. More a brigand than a hero, and I'm not sure Jack would like the comparison." His lip quirked. "Might not be able to _deny_ it… but I doubt he'd _appreciate_ it."

Donnelly glared at him, then turned back to the heroes. "Jack—no, I'm sorry. _Newkirk_ was a man who knew how to laugh in the face of danger, and I admired the hell out of him for it. That's the truth."

"Thank you for saying that," Hogan said. "It means a lot. I understand there's going to be some sort of memorial service, is that right? I think we'd all enjoy hearing some more about what working with Newkirk was like, but for now…" He swallowed, looked away for a moment to gather himself.

Kinch, his own eyes a bit shiny, put a reassuring hand on Hogan's shoulder and finished the thought. "For now I think just the four of us are going to head out and have that farewell toast somewhere quiet. Right, guys?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said Stephens. "That would probably be best all around. But I'm afraid you will need an escort to get past security. Friemann, perhaps you could walk our guests out?"

"Of course, sir," she said. "My pleasure. This way, please."

She led them out. She no longer looked like a bipedal weapon, but she hadn't quite reverted to the warmth she had shown at first, either. LeBeau fell into step beside her.

"You said that you usually play some old man's assistant," he started conversationally. "I assume that Newkirk played your employer?"

"Several times," she said, and quirked a wry eyebrow. "And he enjoyed the role quite a bit. He'd glue on a gray mustache, pretend to be a bit deaf in one ear, and order me about like a tyrant. He'd be so unreasonably cantankerous, so utterly impossible to please, that I nearly gave the whole game away by laughing out loud a time or two."

"I can just picture it," LeBeau said, and chuckled. "He must have been having far too much fun. But sometimes being outrageous is the best way to be invisible."

"Yes. Misdirection, he called it. I vanished into his shadow like magic. Although given my appearance, I hardly needed the help." They had pulled ahead of the others by a good several paces.

"What do you mean?" She was no Tiger, and certainly not a Marya, but that seemed a bit harsh.

"I'd be wearing thick glasses, thicker stockings, sensible shoes, an ugly cardigan with a handkerchief stuffed up the sleeve, and a too-modest dress at least three years out of style. It's like a cloak of invisibility. People would go out of their way not to see me. If I _really_ need to blend into the background, I stick a pencil in my hair and carry a steno pad. It's not a terribly complicated disguise, but it doesn't really need to be. Works like a charm." She smiled a bit. The warmth was returning. "Penny used to say that he was just glad _he_ didn't have to play the part this time around."

"Penny?" LeBeau asked. How many names did Newkirk _have?_

She blushed. "Sorry. Silly nickname. The two of us were on a long assignment together in… well, somewhere... and one night we got a bit drunk and the conversation got around to names. He couldn't use his own, of course, but he said he hated losing it entirely. I told him I understood… I still miss Katja, sometimes."

"Katja?" LeBeau asked.

"I was born in Germany," she said. "That was _my_ nickname as a child. My parents didn't survive the war. Katja didn't, either. After the war, my aunt brought me to England, and we Anglicized my name."

"To fit in better, or because you wanted a fresh start?"

"Both, I suppose," she said, and her hand cupped her forearm in a protective gesture she probably wasn't aware of making. "I was twelve when the war ended. I'd spent most of it in hiding, and the last part of it… well. There were a lot of things I didn't want to remember."

LeBeau managed not to wince as he realized what she wasn't saying. "I understand."

"Anyhow, even in private it didn't seem like a good idea to use his real name, but we compromised with his initials. If anyone else asked about it, he just joked about turning up like a bad penny."

He nodded, and looked sharply at her. The torn collar, now that he knew what he was looking at, said it all. She was Jewish; it was a gesture of bereavement. "You loved him, _n'est ce-pas_?"

She didn't say anything for a moment. "I'm not sure. We were friends. We worked very well together. I cared about him, very much, and I think he cared about me. And yes, we slept together, if that's what you're asking. But were we 'in love'? I don't know. We were both very careful not to find out."

"Why?"

"In a job like this one? Sooner or later, something like this was inevitable. It's bad enough losing a teammate, but a lover? No. Keeping it casual made more sense than risking heartbreak."

"Did it work?" he asked mildly, already knowing the answer.

She tried to meet his eyes; couldn't quite manage it. "Not so far as I can tell." She cleared her throat as the others caught up with them, and flashed her identification at the burly young man at the front door. "There you go. I... It really is a pleasure to finally meet you all."

She managed one last smile, then turned and walked quickly away before any of them could answer.

Hogan nodded briskly at the guard, and the four of them left the building.

"Now what, Colonel?" asked Carter.

"Now we really go do find that pub," Hogan answered. "A nice noisy one where we can be pretty sure we're not being overheard, and we get to work."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: In the last chapter, Stephens made a few comments on Newkirk's assistance with their security procedures. Much to my amusement, when I looked up the address of the building that they would have been using in 1969, it turns out that the building really was considered 'irredeemably insecure,' to say nothing of 'the worst kept secret in London, known only to every taxicab driver, tourist guide, and KGB agent.' I still maintain that if they really _had_ employed Newkirk, he could have improved things a bit. Life imitates art, I suppose.

The Chesterton piece Donnelly quoted, 'The Last Hero,' is chock-full of absolutely wonderful word pictures, and I would have liked to quote a great deal more of the poem. It has also been set to music by a man called Michael Longcor. I recommend it highly.


	9. Chapter 9

London, 1946

There was always a way out of any situation. No matter how hopeless the situation might appear from the outside—or the inside, if it came to that—there was always a way to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. It was just a matter of finding it.

Hogan believed that, because he _had_ to believe it. He'd spent three years doing the impossible on a daily basis; if he'd ever let himself even entertain the idea that there might be a problem without a solution, if he had even once let himself so much as acknowledge his own doubts, he would never have been able to keep going. Therefore, clearly, he had to begin by assuming that an answer existed. And that furthermore, if it existed, it would come to him. It had to.

And it did. The next day was Sunday; church bells across the city were tolling, and the idea came to him in a single, simple word.

Sanctuary.

He'd said it himself. Getting Newkirk to America would solve most of his problems; all he really needed was a safe place in which to start over. If Great Britain didn't realize what they were throwing away, that was just their hard luck. Maybe, just maybe, their loss could be the United States' gain.

Sure, there was the minor issue of his lacking a passport, and the slightly less minor issue of his complicated legal history, but Hogan was certain that he could find a way around that. The Unsung Heroes operation had earned a lot of favors from a lot of important people, and Hogan was more than prepared to call in as many of them as necessary.

He'd gotten hundreds of people out of enemy hands. That had been his job, and he'd lived for it, waking and sleeping, for nearly three years. By this time, it wasn't just his mission; it had become a part of who he was. This was familiar territory, nothing out of the ordinary; just one more prisoner to set free. Just one more.

He made a beeline for the American Embassy and proceeded to run up their phone bills considerably. He was grimly aware that no one on either side of the Atlantic was going to be particularly delighted at the prospect of stirring up a hornets' nest (and potentially irritating their UK allies,) by granting political asylum to a supposed Nazi propagandist. He was going to have to do some fancy footwork, but he was, after all, General Robert E. Hogan, with all that implied, and he'd tackled harder problems in his day. One way or another, he promised himself, he would wangle official authorization to get Newkirk safe. And if he couldn't do it by going through channels, he'd do it anyway.

You didn't leave a man behind. You just didn't. Especially not this one.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Five frustrating hours later, he put down the receiver and sighed. He wasn't even close to giving up, but his list of potential allies was still alarmingly short, and his list of people who probably wouldn't be overly cordial to him anytime soon was growing alarmingly long. He flipped through the phone directory again, stopped near the front of the alphabet, and grimaced.

General Barton was, perhaps, the most directly indebted of the officers in Hogan's phone book. It was unfortunate that he was also the one Hogan was least anxious to contact. The man was rigid, unbending, as subtle as a kick to the crotch and almost as pleasant. He had spent most of their brief acquaintanceship sourly convinced that Hogan was a coward and a collaborator, and had said so, loudly and often. He had, apparently, changed his mind by the time he left the camp, and the promised court-martial had never materialized, but that didn't mean that calling him up out of the blue and asking for his help was going to be anything but uncomfortable, and it certainly didn't mean that Hogan was especially confident that he would be willing to provide it. It would have been nice to have had any better options.

Hogan took a deep breath and dialed his number.

"General Barton's office," said the secretary. "May I help you?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "Please tell him that General Robert Hogan needs to speak with him on a matter of some urgency."

"Yes, sir. Is the general expecting your call?"

"No. But he knows me." Oh, yes; Barton knew him, all right. There was at least a thirty percent chance that Barton still wanted to haul him up on charges, a fact he felt no need to share with the secretary, but there was no doubt that they knew one another.

"One moment, please."

Hogan drummed his fingers against the desk, waiting nervously.

"Barton here," came the brusque voice. "What's this all about, Hogan?"

"Thank you for taking my call, General," Hogan said politely. "I needed to speak with you on behalf of one of my men, from back in Stalag 13. I don't suppose you remember Corporal Peter Newkirk of the RAF?"

Barton let out a gruff bark that, Hogan assumed, was supposed to be laughter. "Yes, I remember your corporal. How could I forget? He read me a riot act like I hadn't heard since basic."

Hogan nearly dropped the phone. "He did _what?_ "

"He never told you about that, huh? He wasn't too happy with the way I'd been talking to you, and he took it upon himself to do something about it."

Hogan could just imagine that horrifying little scene, and his blood ran cold at the thought of it. Corporal Peter 'You Get My Cooperation _After_ You've Earned My Respect' Newkirk dressing down General Aloysius 'When I Want Your Opinion I'll Tell You What It Is' Barton. Unbelievable, except for the part where it was entirely inevitable. Hogan had the sudden sinking suspicion that he had wasted a phone call; Barton was not likely to be overly sympathetic to Newkirk's plight. Although he might well volunteer to be on the firing squad.

"He would. If I'd known… " Hogan trailed off. Fairly sure he didn't want to know, he nonetheless couldn't stop himself from asking the next question. "What did he _say?"_

"A whole lot of things that I shouldn't have needed to have spelled out for me," Barton brushed it off. Newkirk hadn't broken confidentiality about the Unsung Heroes operation; Barton had not found out about that—or, indeed, about _anything_ that had gone on during his sojourn in the camp—until he'd been safely returned to HQ. Newkirk had, however, made a few brief observations to the effect that escape was a great deal easier from a plywood barracks than a concrete cell, that ordinary noncoms were guarded much less assiduously than high level brass, that Hogan juggled eggs every hour of the day to keep the Krauts pacified without _ever_ crossing the line into collaboration, and that the only men in camp who wouldn't take a bullet for him were the ones who'd cheerfully take two or more.

As a postscript, he'd added that he, Newkirk, knew everything there was to know about officers who sold out their men, had the scars to prove it, and could state with utter certainty that Hogan was not one of them. His tone had been restrained, respectful, and unobjectionable. He had _not_ told the general that he was a bloody minded, self-important ingrate who had his head so firmly wedged up his own backside that he didn't know when someone was trying to save his hide. Barton suspected that he would probably have liked to. Barton knew that he would probably have been right.

He'd had to admit it. He'd been captured, and he'd been angry, embarrassed, and upset about it. More than that, he was only human. He'd been _scared_. Taking out his frustration on the Nazis had not been an option, and Hogan, who was pretty much required to stand there and take whatever abuse Barton had felt like dishing out, had been too tempting a target to pass up.

The fact that Hogan had then concocted an outrageous, impossible, all-or-nothing plan to save Barton anyway, even with the promise of a court-martial ringing in his ears—and pulled it off—was amazing. The fact that Newkirk, unprompted, had chosen to deliver his polite little curtain lecture—which could easily have landed him in a court-martial of his very own— on Hogan's behalf was humbling. That kind of loyalty was not easily earned, and Barton respected it. He respected Hogan for inspiring it, and envied him for possessing it.

"But enough of the past," he said. "What do you want from me?"

"I need your help," Hogan said simply. "Or more specifically, _he_ does." In a few brief sentences, he explained the whole sorry situation, with a certain emphasis on his own culpability.

There was a long silence. "Huh," Barton said, finally. "Hell of a mess you've made there."

"I know. Believe me, I know."

"Look, Hogan," Barton continued. "You and your boys got me out of Nazi hands, and I owe you for that. I don't know how much I can do, but I'll make some phone calls, throw my weight around a little, and see what happens."

A rush of relief swept through Hogan's entire frame. "Thank you, General Barton. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that."

"Glad to do it. I know his type, and there are only two things you can do with a man like that; shoot him or promote him. I should know; I've seen a few of them over the years."

"So have I," Hogan said ruefully. "In fact, if I'm being honest, I think I _was_ one of them."

"I'm sure you were. For what it's worth, I think you're making the smart choice. I'll be in touch."

Hogan hung up the phone. That had gone considerably better than he'd expected, and a triumphant grin flickered around the corners of his mouth. One down.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Elsewhere in London, 1946

The young officer didn't come back. Nobody came back; apparently they were going to try to sweat it out of him. Time-honored tradition, which he wasn't about to fall for; he just leaned back in the chair, put his feet on the table, and made himself as comfortable as he could. Right. This was familiar territory. There wasn't much anyone could tell Stalag 13's undisputed King of the Cooler about surviving empty time.

Staring off into space, he started playing one of the many mind games the kriegies had invented over the years to keep from going stir-crazy. A was for Apple, and the last letter of that was E, switch to German; E was for Eins, last letter of that was S, switch to French; S was for Salut, last letter T, back to English. T was for Tunnel…

After a few exceptionally dull hours, the door opened, but it wasn't the officer, just another one of those interchangeable soldiers, with their beefy builds and their wooden expressions. Holstered at his side was a pistol.

Newkirk didn't say anything, just swung his feet back down to the floor and waited. So this was it, then. Fair enough. Quick and easy, and it was about the best offer he'd gotten in months—

"Do you like ham?" asked the soldier.

"…What?"

"Do you like ham? Only it's that or chicken," he repeated.

Correction; _that_ was the best offer he'd gotten in months. Being shot dropped to number two on the list, and he didn't even want to think about what that said about his priorities. "Er, yes. Ham is fine," he said.

The soldier stepped back and closed the door. About five minutes later, he came back with a small packet done up in greaseproof paper. There was even tea, albeit in a paper cup that could not be converted into a tool or a weapon of any sort. He put them on the table, nodded shortly, and left again.

Bemused, Newkirk picked up the packet and undid the wrappings. It really did contain a thick ham sandwich, and he took a bite. Why not? He was hungry, ham was well out of his usual budget, and, as things currently stood, slipping something into the food would be a waste of good poison. If they wanted to dope him, they would, and there wasn't much he could do about it; if he refused to eat, there were far less pleasant ways to administer whatever drug they had in mind. If it was meant by way of a Last Meal, it was a better one than he'd been expecting, and if it wasn't, he'd need the energy. And it really was quite tasty, which in and of itself was a good enough reason to enjoy it. Hogan had made a few pointed comments, over the years, about his tendency to figure things out from three angles before coming to any decisions, and this was no exception; some things never changed.

He made short work of it, then folded the discarded paper, stuck it neatly in the empty cup, and settled back in to see what came next.

Nothing happened. No one came in. After ten minutes or so, he considered banging on the door and demanding to see the dessert trolley, just to see what they might do, but eventually, not without some reluctance, decided against it.

Nothing happened some more. He sighed, and put his feet back up on the table. S was for Sandwich, last letter H, switch to German…

They kept him in there, as far as he could tell, for nearly a full day. It was an extremely polite form of imprisonment, all things considered. He was given another sandwich at what his stomach judged was about the right time for supper; nobody tried anything funny with the temperature of the room; he was escorted down the corridor to use the facilities at reasonable intervals; nobody laid a hand on him.

Nobody talked to him, either. Complete and utter silence.

What in hell were they waiting for?

All right. He'd been patient, he'd been courteous; he'd even been cooperative, to a certain extent. Now he was going to take matters into his own hands.

He reached up his sleeve, pulled out the pen he'd used to sign his 'confession.' He snapped off the clip, bent it carefully into shape, then pressed his ear to the door, listening hard. He didn't hear anything, which meant that either the coast was fairly clear or the door was too thick to transmit sound. If it was the first, it was a good time to be on his way. If it was the second, then it was as good a time as any.

He stuck the improvised pick into the lock, twisted it; the door obediently clicked open. Piece of cake; that had been the easy part.

On his trips to and from the WC, he'd paid attention to the scenery, more or less by sheer force of habit. He thought he had a fairly good idea of the building's layout, and, over the course of a phenomenally boring day, had figured the likeliest way out, and then come up with a secondary route just to be on the safe side.

About halfway down the corridor he decided that he probably should have gone with the secondary route, because an MP opened one of the doors and stepped into the hallway.

Newkirk jumped him before he could make a sound, got him into a well-practiced sleeper hold, and hung on until the other man started going limp.

First things first. He took the guard's sidearm, and shoved it in his own pocket. How to play this…? Well, he could always take the man's clothes and try to get out of the building that way. Shouldn't be too difficult, really, and he'd always preferred slipping out of a situation to shooting his way out of one. Yes. The uniform would be a reasonably decent camouflage for as long as it would take to get far enough away from the building to vanish into the shadows. From there, he could…

What could he do from there?

What could he do from _anywhere_?

There was nowhere left to go. Nothing left to try. Nowhere to hide. If he made a break for it, they'd stage the biggest manhunt since Jack the Ripper, and sooner or later they'd run him to ground. Even if he slipped out of their net, all that meant was that he'd spend the next however many years with his heart in his throat, constantly looking over his shoulder. Neither outcome appealed. There just wasn't any point in running, not anymore.

He loosened the man's necktie, used it to bind his hands together, and dragged the man into a convenient storage closet, mostly to get him out of the way. Then he continued down the corridor, but not towards the doors anymore. It was no longer about escape. He found the main office, took a deep breath, and drew the pistol. Showtime. Overture and beginners, please.

He pushed the door open. Inside were several men, including the officer who had been questioning him, and the wary shock on all their faces was oddly satisfying. He smiled grimly, and tossed his makeshift pick onto the man's desk with his left hand, keeping the gun steady in his right. "Bit of friendly advice, lads—if a fellow knows what he's about, improvising a lockpick isn't all that terribly difficult, especially if you're going to leave pens lying about loose. Which you really oughtn't," he said. "Just a word to the wise."

Another man—a bit older, a bit grayer—nodded slowly. "Did he leave the gun lying about, too?"

"No," Newkirk said calmly. "Borrowed it from one of your boys I happened to run into on the way here."

"I see. Is he dead?" the man asked, with no particular urgency in his voice.

"Of course not. We're all on the same side, aren't we? He's in the broom closet, having a bit of a kip. And, frankly, it's been a long day, and I'm about done in. So will one of you gents show me to a cell with a cot, or do I have to find one myself?"

The man frowned. "You had a lockpick, a weapon, and a straight path to the door. Obviously you could have walked out of here any time you liked. Why on earth are you still _here_? Why didn't you escape?"

"What bloody good would that have done?" Newkirk said bitterly, and put the gun down on the nearest desk. "Prolonging the inevitable is a mug's game, and seems to me that the only way to stop being chased is to stop running. Now, do I get that cot or don't I?"

"If you like," he said. "Sheffield, find our friend somewhere to sleep, and see to it that he stays there," he ordered. When they'd left, he turned to the other men in the office. "McConnell, go let Davies out of the closet and make sure he's all right. Foxe, get on the phone, find out what is causing all this delay, and damned well undelay it! I don't care what it takes. Just get it done!"

The younger officer picked up the lockpick in one hand and the abandoned pistol in the other, staring at them in utter disbelief, trying to figure out what had just happened and fit it into some sort of logical framework. "He's mad, General," he said. "I can certainly see why you were hesitant to bring him back onboard."

The older man snorted. "No, Reed, I don't think you do. But you _did_ just see why Stephens wasn't about to take no for an answer."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: General Barton does not come off too well in 'The General Swap.' I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt, and assuming that some of his pigheaded attitude is a reaction to being captured. I'm also assuming that Newkirk did not break confidentiality during their little heart-to-heart; obviously Barton hadn't known about Hogan's operation, which implies that he was not *meant* to know.


	10. Chapter 10

The heroes found a pub a few blocks away that looked reasonably good, went in, ordered a round of beers as protective camouflage, and settled in at a table at the back.

Hogan looked around the table. "Well? First impressions?"

"Stephens is about to crack," Kinch said, immediately. "You can tell he's blaming himself for everything. Bad enough losing Newkirk, but who knows how many more people are going to die because Stephens couldn't identify a mole right under his nose?"

Hogan grimaced. "You're probably right. Hell of a way to end a career."

"Yeah. I actually feel kind of bad for the guy," said Kinch. "Newkirk's at peace. Stephens is about to fall apart, and I think that having to suspect the rest of his team is going to finish him."

"No one ever wants to think that a member of his team is going to turn on him like that," said Hogan. "But one of them probably did. What did you guys think of them?"

"I thought Kay seemed pretty nice," said Carter, meditatively. "Well, pretty nice when she wasn't being scary, anyway. I don't think she would have done it."

"They were lovers," LeBeau said. "I do not want to accuse her on those grounds alone, but there is the old saying about a woman scorned to consider."

Kinch shrugged. "Maybe. She's just his type, you know. Newkirk always did like women who were… um…"

"Breathing?" LeBeau suggested.

"A little dangerous," Kinch finished. "And that came back to bite him in the ass more than once. Remember Gretel? And North Star?"

 _And Berlin Betty_ , thought Hogan. "That's fair. And you're right, Carter… she was kind of scary, and we should keep an eye on her. What about the others?"

"Donnelly seemed really upset about Newkirk," Carter said. "And I liked that he finally used his real name."

LeBeau nodded. "He had to be reminded, but he was willing to do the right thing when prompted."

"Moore didn't seem all that upset," said Kinch. "Stephens was making excuses for him, and maybe it really was just about him being shaken up, but he sure didn't seem too sad."

"Yeah. He was actually making jokes about it," said Carter. "Who makes jokes at a time like this?"

"And he was a little too eager to get us out of the way before they did any real investigating," said Hogan. "Is that because he thought we would botch the whole thing, I wonder, or was he afraid that we'd find something he didn't want us to know?"

"If he was trying to keep us out, he sure picked a stupid way of going about it," Kinch said. "Telling us to get lost was like waving a red flag at a bull, and he had to realize that. He might have genuinely been afraid that we'd get ourselves killed. Leaving the three of us out of it, an American general dying under suspicious circumstances on foreign soil would be hard to hush up."

"Maybe, or maybe he's trying to send us on a wild goose chase while he covers his tracks," said Carter.

"Perhaps, Andre," said LeBeau. "He did not seem terribly subtle to me."

"Well, he _is_ a spy, and he's got to be pretty good, or Stephens wouldn't have him on the team," said Carter. "Being subtle and sneaky is a big part of the job. And so is not reacting—like he was— when something makes you nervous." He chuckled suddenly, deep in his throat.

"What's so funny?" asked Kinch.

"I just thought of something. Remember the time I almost got us caught, after the Kraut stomped on my foot?"

"I certainly do," Hogan said with a grimace. "You started yelping in English, loud enough that they probably heard you in Hammelberg. Forget getting us caught; you nearly got us _shot_."

"Yeah," Carter said. "Well, when we got back to the barracks, you guys were taking turns yelling at me, and I was so mad at myself I could barely think straight."

"With good reason," Kinch said.

"No kidding. Anyway, I was mad at myself for doing something so dumb, and mad at you guys for rubbing it in, and mad at the Kraut for the mean trick, and I was embarrassed, and still kind of rattled from how scary the whole thing had been, and my foot really hurt. But the point is, Newkirk wasn't yelling at me with the rest of you; he'd just disappeared somewhere, and I just wanted to get it all over with at once. So I went looking for him."

"Oh, I can just imagine what he had to say," said Hogan.

"You're probably wrong," said Carter. "Because I sure was."

*.*.*.*.*

Newkirk was in their small library, looking for something he hadn't already read at least eight times and not finding anything. Carter came storming in with fire in his eyes. " _There_ you are," he snapped. "Well? Get on with it."

 _Great Expectations_ went back on the shelf with a thump. "Get on with what, exactly?"

"You know! Go on, say it. I'm no good and I nearly got us all killed. Say it!"

"Why for? What could I possibly say that's worse than what you're already thinking?"

Carter scowled. "You'll come up with _something._ I know you! Just let me have it and get it over with."

Newkirk shrugged. "You made a mistake, Andrew. That's all. Now, it was a bloody stupid mistake, and you know that. And it could have easily been a fatal mistake, and you know that too. But it didn't come to that. You got lucky. That means you have the chance to make sure you never do anything like that ever again… and best believe I'll be helping you with that one. Anything else you want me to say, or does that about cover it?"

Carter blinked a few times. "You're not mad?"

"When my heart starts beating again, there might be some residual annoyance," Newkirk said, considering and rejecting _The Admirable Crichton_. "I'm severely allergic to lead. But mistakes only happen to the living. Important thing is not to make the same one twice, is all."

"Yeah. I won't do _that_ again, that's for sure. But you said you'd help me with that…?"

Newkirk smiled like a wolf. "Carter," he said. "I _insist_ on it."

*.*.*.*

"…The rest of you still gave me all kinds of grief for the next day or two, but I just kept remembering what he said about not making the same mistake twice. It helped. It really did. I'm not saying he didn't give me an earful over plenty of other stuff, but when it really mattered… he focused on fixing the problem instead of rehashing the blame. And he made _me_ do that, too."

"And you say he helped you make sure it didn't happen again?" Kinch smiled, touched. "That's really nice."

"Well, when I say 'helped,' what I mean is that he stepped on my toes every chance he got for the next two weeks. Or flicked me in the ear, or smacked me with his cap or something. Whenever I wasn't expecting it, whack! And if I messed up, it'd be 'Nein, nein, nein. Deutch sprechen, Andrew!' Training me out of reacting in English, you see."

"Did it help?" asked LeBeau.

Carter grinned widely. "To this day, if I stub my toe, I yell in German. And let me tell you, _that_ took some explaining after the war."

Kinch shook a mock-serious finger at him. "Nein, nein, nein. Englisch sprechen, Andrew!"

"You know, that's another funny thing," said Carter. "No one ever called me that before the war. My family called me Little Deer, the guys at school called me Andy, when I enlisted they called me Carter, and Mary Jane called me Drew. But then I landed in Stalag 13, and five minutes later this English guy I didn't know from a hole in the wall was calling me Andrew. And it stuck."

"New situation, new mission, new job, new name," said Kinch. "Sounds like he did the same thing himself, after the war ended."

LeBeau bit his lip, then stood up. "I will be right back," he said, and walked towards the men's room, almost casually enough to seem natural.

After a moment, Hogan took a quick sip of his drink, then put down the glass. "Actually, so will I. I've got to see a man about a dog."

As he'd suspected, LeBeau was not making use of the facilities. He was standing by the sink, scowling at the entirely blameless paper towel dispenser.

"What's wrong, Louis?" Hogan asked gently.

"Wrong, _mon Colonel_? What could possibly be wrong?" LeBeau mocked bitterly. "Pierre is dead. He died a horrible death, in _Germany_ of all places, because, one last time, someone he trusted betrayed him. And not only can we not even bury him decently, we cannot even honor him under his own name!"

Hogan looked away. What was there to say? LeBeau was right.

"Why? Why could they not leave him even that much? None of the rest of us had to spend the rest of our lives hiding who we were."

"Changing his name… it wasn't really about our operation, or about trying to leave us behind. He _had_ to disappear. He went through... some real trouble after the war."

" _Oui._ I know," said LeBeau quietly. "I have always known."

Hogan let out a breath. "He told you?"

"Him? Never. But people talk. And the prospect of executing traitors and collaborators… people talk about that. With great pleasure. Even in Paris, even while dealing with our own collaborators, people talked of him as well."

"Good God," Hogan mumbled. "What did you do?"

"What he would have wanted. Nothing. I did not try to contact him. I did not offer to speak in his defense. I did not fight those who smacked their lips as if already tasting his blood. I did nothing."

Hogan nodded. He didn't even want to think about how hard that must have been. "It was the right call," he said. "You couldn't have done anything anyway."

"No," LeBeau said. "I could not; all I had to offer was the truth, and the truth was the last thing anyone wanted to hear, even if I had been allowed to tell it. The one mercy I could show was my silence. I could not save him, but I _could_ let him go to his death thinking that I knew nothing about it. I could let him believe that he had shielded me— all of us— from danger, one last time. I could let him die with at least that much dignity intact." He rolled his eyes, but they were wet and he didn't try to hide it. "He is an idiot. But he is _my_ idiot. I know how he thinks. Thought."

"And he did," Hogan said. "He died believing that he was shielding the whole damned world from danger. That's not something most people get, LeBeau. I know it's not enough, but for a guy like him, it's a lot."

LeBeau turned on the cold water, splashed a little over his face to remove any telltale signs. "Perhaps," was all he said.

"We still have a trap to set," said Hogan. "Come on out when you're ready."

"I am ready," said LeBeau firmly, and opened the door.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

East Berlin, 1969

Bureaucracy being what it was, especially when coupled with the German tendency towards thoroughness and meticulous record-keeping, whisking prisoners off into the ether was no simple task. Even when you had a twenty-four-karat-genuine Stasi officer with every reason to want the escape to go smoothly, there were any number of Is to cross and Ts to dot.

Or so Lange insisted. Newkirk was not convinced.

"Look, chummy; you're overthinking things," Newkirk said irritably. "Everyone feels better for a quick wash and a fresh set of togs after a long day of beating up helpless prisoners; that means there's got to be at least one spare uniform in this dump. You untie me, I put it on, we walk out, just two blokes off shift heading for the nearest biergarten to piss and moan and put off going home to our wives, and we're away."

"No. It's not that simple," said Lange. "There are checkpoints. There are guards. This isn't a damned dime novel, Newkirk."

"Fine. Go forge a transfer order and borrow a van. Tell them you're taking me to some new top secret torture chamber somewhere outside the city, where there are fewer people to hear the screams."

"They'd know that was nonsense. We have an excellent facility right here in the building. With soundproofed walls. You're already scheduled for an extended visit."

"Good to know," Newkirk said, with a grimace. "You just had to share that little nugget of happy news?"

"Think of it as additional motivation to get me to safety."

"You're a real help. All right. Someone's got to dispose of the bodies when you lads have finished playing with them. Could that person be bribed to carry out one extra, one whose body bag maybe isn't zipped up all the way?"

"I very much doubt it. Not if that person valued their own life. The ruse would be detected immediately, and he would be arrested. Assuming I didn't shoot him to keep him quiet as soon as he was no longer useful. Which is precisely what I would do, and he would know it."

Newkirk let out an exasperated breath. Before he could take a fourth stab at it, the door opened. Two more Stasi officers came in.

" **Have you gotten anything more from him, Kapitan Strauss**?" asked one of them.

Newkirk's head snapped up. Strauss? Not Lange? Where had that come from? So the old buzzard was hiding his Nazi past, was he? Wasn't _that_ interesting...

Lange glared at him, obviously knowing exactly what he was thinking. " **Not yet** ," he said. " **But these things take time."**

 **"Time, Herr Kapitan, is exactly what we do not have. You had your chance, and you failed. Time to let someone else try."**

" **Please,** " Newkirk said, in as pitiful a voice as he could muster, with a sidelong glance at Lange. " **This is all some terrible mistake. I told Kapitan…Strauss… that he had the wrong man. I am not who you think I am—"**

The officer backhanded him, in a routine, uninterested way, then turned to the other officer. **"Take this pig back to his cell. We can pick up where we left off later. In the meantime, Kapitan Strauss… I believe we have several other matters to discuss."**

The last thing Newkirk saw as the guard manhandled him out the door was Lange squaring off with the other officer, looking like a cornered rat, all teeth and fury and hatred.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: In the episode where the foot-stomp actually happened, (The Dropouts,) Newkirk really wasn't there during the scene where everyone yells at Carter. (Neither was Kinch, as it was Season Six, but I figured a little poetic license was all right.) I wondered where he was, and why he wasn't joining in the public shaming session. This is what I came up with.

As regards the scene in the restroom, it is simply not reasonable to assume that over the course of thirty years, four very intelligent ex-spies would have remained completely unaware of an extremely public scandal that had been splashed all over the newspapers. I did, however, think it was reasonable to posit that they might have carefully maintained the polite fiction that they didn't know the details, and let Newkirk preserve at least a little dignity.


	11. Chapter 11

London, 1946

Among the phone calls he had made that day were several that involved searching through some decidedly non-military records, and when that had been satisfactorily concluded, tracking down an address. On Sunday evening, Hogan found himself in Brighton, double-checking the address of a certain house against the slip of paper in his hand, and wished that he was doing something straightforward and risk-free, instead. Like blowing up a bridge, perhaps.

Frustrated with his butterflies, Hogan forced himself to walk casually up the stairs and ring the doorbell. When, after a moment, the door was opened by an attractive young woman with hauntingly familiar green eyes, he didn't quite know how to begin.

"Hello, Mrs. Blake," he said, with a polite nod. "My name is Robert Hogan. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance…?"

She recognized the name, he could tell that immediately. She just looked at him for a moment, considering, then opened the door a bit wider. "Come in," she said, in a stiff, careful voice, with only the faintest hint of London in her intonation.

He followed her into a sitting room, took the chair she pointed out to him. "I'm sorry for dropping in unannounced like this," he said. "But I think there's something you need to be told."

She blinked hard. Still in that measured, distant tone, she said, "I was just putting the kettle on. Please, do make yourself comfortable. I'll bring us some tea."

She walked quickly out of the room. Left to his own devices, he looked around. Everything was nicely arranged and scrupulously neat, but something about it seemed off. After a moment, it struck him; it was entirely impersonal. There were no photographs of any sort, no indications that the inhabitants had any family, or any past at all. It was like sitting in a stage set, or a magazine article.

She came back with a tray containing two cups of tea and a plate with several biscuits nicely arranged on it. Not many—rationing was still in force—but there was such a thing as manners, and there was a correct way of doing things, and Hogan could tell that she was going to play the gracious hostess if it killed her. She put the tray on the table, then, bereft of other ways to postpone the conversation, sat down across from him. "Did you speak with any of the neighbors on your way here?" she asked abruptly. "Did you tell anyone who you were, or why you came?"

"No," he said. "No one at all."

"Good," she said, relieved. "In that case, you're an old friend of my husband's. Your name is… let's see… Harry Fletcher, you're only in town for a few days, and you're certainly not an American."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said. "But now that we've got my cover story straightened out, I'd like to tell you why I'm really here."

She sighed. "No need. You want to talk about Peter," she said.

"Yes. I was his commanding officer in Stalag 13. And I think that there are some details about his time there that you need to hear."

"No, I don't think there are. I already know more than enough," she said.

"You don't know anything," Hogan contradicted. "All you know is that he said a few crummy things on the radio. You don't know _why_."

"I read the papers," she said. "Every word. Every detail. Are you saying that they weren't true?"

"I'm saying that it wasn't as cut and dried as all that," Hogan said. "It was a lot more complicated than they made it sound, and they glossed over a lot of things. And there was a lot of exaggeration, too."

"So it _isn't_ true that he…" she stopped short, her voice cracking. Suddenly much younger and more vulnerable, she started over. "Is it true? What they said at the trial. Was Peter… Did they really torture him?"

Hogan's mind zipped through a number of very unpleasant memories, and his expression telegraphed each and every one of them without needing words. "Yeah," he finally said. "They did."

Her own expression tightened with pain. But after a moment, she murmured, "No matter. He still should never have done it. No real man would have betrayed his country that way."

"He didn't do it because of that," Hogan said, through gritted teeth. It was so damned easy to pontificate on the nature of bravery when you'd never _actually_ been on the wrong side of a rubber hose. Anyone could fancy themselves a heroic martyr when they were sitting comfortably at home. When you were coming to, for the third time, in a puddle of your own blood and urine and vomit… things got a lot less black and white.

She looked up sharply. "What did you say?"

"I said, that wasn't why. They never broke him." Hogan caught himself before adding, _They didn't have to. Between the two of us, we spared them the trouble._ "He only made that damned broadcast because I asked him to. Because I _ordered_ him to."

She stared at him. "Why? Why would you make him do something like that?"

"There were a lot of reasons. The biggest one is just plain that someone had to. The Krauts wanted that propaganda piece; they weren't about to take no for an answer. The whole camp was taking heat, and it was only going to get worse. Since the program was being played in London, we needed someone in the RAF to step up and take the hit, for all our sakes." That was actually true. It wasn't the whole truth, but it was as much as he was allowed to tell. It was going to have to be enough.

"But… but why? Why _him_? Why would you do that to him?"

"Who else could I have picked?" Hogan said. "Look. When I was first brought into the camp, he was the guy who knew everything and everyone. So I talked to him. Just to get the lay of the land, at first. Then I kept talking to him, because he was sharp as a tack and the Krauts hadn't broken his spirit, which was pretty damned rare. And then I leaned on him, because as senior POW I was trying to take care of three hundred prisoners and I needed someone I could count on to have my back. And when the Krauts started insisting that someone had to play along with their little propaganda stunt, I needed someone brave enough to let himself be branded a coward. Someone loyal enough to play the traitor. Someone strong enough to…"

"To take the consequences without protesting."

"…Yeah. I just never imagined that they'd be anything like this. It never even occurred to me that he'd be in anything like this much trouble."

"If you had known, would you still have done it?"

That was the question, wasn't it? At the time, nothing had seemed more important than getting that message out, than getting that mission completed and that factory bombed, and no price had seemed too high to pay. Now? It all looked so much smaller. So much pettier. "I don't know," he said at last. "It depends."

"On what?"

"On whether I could come up with another way around the jam we were in. If not… then yes, I would have. Not because I wanted to, and not because I wanted him to get hurt. But I didn't have any other choice."

She looked away. "Well, I suppose that's honest, at least."

"This is honest, too. It's my fault. All of it. I'm the one to blame, here. Not him. Look, I'm begging you; the rest of the world is already punishing him for my mistakes. Please. Not you too." Hogan's voice was low. "He loves you. You have to know that."

"I do know that," she said.

"Then please. Just talk to him," Hogan said. "Give him a reason to hang on until I can fix this."

"I can't," she said. It was one of the hardest decisions she'd ever had to make, but even as the final gavel had hit the bench, she had known where her allegiances had to lie, and with whom. He had taught her that before she'd turned ten.

"Why not? Damn it, haven't you heard a word I've said? None of this is his fault! Don't you care what he's going through?"

"More than you'll ever know. But you don't understand what it was _like_ for us after those radio programs. I was able to leave my name behind once, and the shame that went with it, but I can't do it a second time. I don't dare risk it." Her hand, involuntarily, went to her stomach, which, Hogan suddenly noticed, was more than slightly rounded. "It would be different if it was just me. But it's not. There's someone _I_ have to protect now, and Peter would understand that better than anyone."

Hogan looked away, checkmated. "Yeah, he would," he said softly. "He definitely would. Can I at least tell him that he's going to be an uncle?"

"No," she said. "But if you like, you can tell him that he's going to be a grandfather. And that I'm sorry. For everything."

Hogan just looked at her for a moment, then nodded, and got to his feet. He walked out, leaving her alone. Alone, with her memories, her unborn child, and two cups of untouched tea.

She remembered that last conversation. It had been June outside, but inside the harsh gray prison it had felt like the depths of winter; no doubt that was why she couldn't stop shivering. She'd wept and cursed and berated and snarled, venting months of fury and fear, and he'd taken it all in a downcast, shamefaced silence that was nothing like the brother she remembered. Finally, she'd snapped, asking him if he didn't have anything to say. He'd just pointed at the ring on her left hand and asked, abruptly, "Is he good to you? Whoever he is."

"Yes," she'd told him, defiantly. "He's a good man, and he loves me. He knows all about you, too, and he doesn't cast it up to me that my only relation is a filthy traitor."

He'd just nodded. "Do you love him?"

She'd felt her eyes tearing up. "Yes," she repeated. It was the truth. "Very much."

"That's all right, then," he'd said. "Be happy, Mave; that's all that matters. Walk away from all this, and never look back. Get on with your life. I… I'm not asking you to forgive me. But I _will_ ask you to believe that I never meant to hurt you, and that I'm sorry, darling; from the bottom of my heart, I'm sorry."

She didn't say anything. He took a deep breath, continued. "I can't ever change what I did. I can't change it, and I can't make up for it. All I can do now is pay for it."

And then she'd said it, said the thing she would spend the rest of her life wishing she could take back. "I hope you _do_ pay for it. You _should_. Damn you to hell, Peter! How could you do this to me?" She'd sobbed, once, and even now she didn't know if it had been grief, fear, or rage. He'd tried to reach for her hand; she jerked away so violently that her chair went over backwards. "I hope they hang you soon. I wish they'd done it already. I wish you'd died like a hero, when they first shot you down. I could have been proud of you then! Instead, you've shamed us all forever. It would have been so… so much..."

He'd just closed his eyes and bowed his head a fraction more, accepting that, too, as she'd backed away from him, and it was all too much, it was just too hard; she was about to start weeping in earnest, and she knew that if she did, she wouldn't be able to stop. She pounded blindly on the door to signal that she wanted out.

"You're not saying anything I've not thought myself," he'd said quietly, as the guards unlocked the door. "Goodbye, Mave."

She hadn't wanted to read the newspaper pieces about the trial, but she couldn't help herself. She read every word she could get her hands on, listened to anyone who might be discussing it on the wireless, kept a sharp ear out for any gossip that included his name.

She told herself that she was just making sure that no one was mentioning _her_ name. Then she told herself that she was just morbidly curious to see what was going to happen. Then she told herself that she didn't _care_ , that she just wanted it to be over with, quickly, so that she would never have to think about him again. Then carefully phrased extracts of the defense counsel's arguments had started tentatively filtering out into the papers, until someone had finally come out and said the word 'torture'.

And then she'd cried.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Hogan caught the train back to London with about two minutes to spare. Exhausted, he slumped down in his seat in a grim mood, mentally reviewed the situation. He had arrived in London on Saturday morning. He had found out about the Newkirk Situation on Saturday afternoon. He had spent the better part of Saturday evening and most of Sunday discussing the Newkirk Situation, with varying levels of acrimony, with pretty much everyone above the rank of janitor, on two continents, and he intended to keep doing so until either A: Doomsday, B: the situation was repaired, or C: he landed himself in the stockade, whichever came first.

He wasn't finished, and he was no longer certain that he was going to have the problem fixed by Wednesday, which was when he'd originally been scheduled to go home, but he _had_ made at least some progress, so when he got off the train, he went straight to Stepney, intending to give Newkirk an update. He found the decrepit building easily enough, and went in without anyone so much as batting an eye, but no one answered his knock at Newkirk's door.

He banged a bit harder. Of all the lousy times for Newkirk to be out and about…

A door opened, but it was the one next door, and a woman stepped into the corridor. "He's not there," she said, with smug satisfaction in her voice.

Hogan turned to look at her. "No, I guess he isn't," he said. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Never, by the looks of it," she said, even more smugly. "They took him off in a Black Maria, and I'd venture to guess he's found new living quarters by now."

"They _what?_ "

"Oh, yes," she said, obviously enjoying herself. "Two strapping young fellows came by and nicked him this morning. He won't be wriggling off the hook a second time, count on it. No one can escape justice forever! So if you're looking for a room to let, that one is now officially available."

Newkirk had warned him. _You start kicking up a fuss about a traitor, they'll start wondering why, and you'll only make things worse for the **both** of us._ Hogan, fighting off the urge to be sick then and there, spun on his heel, and marched out of the building without another word. The woman's malicious little chuckle followed him all the way back down to the street entrance.


	12. Chapter 12

Germany, 1945

He was diligently tracking down the whats and the whens and the wheres and the more technical of the hows. He was finding reams of data, stacks and piles of the whos and the whichs and the whethers.

What he could not seem to find were the whys. And the more he searched, the less he found; the less he found the more he needed. There was only thing he knew for certain anymore, and it was not enough to mollify the hollow-eyed, accusing stares that haunted his dreams.

The world could not be allowed to be like this.

There was no price too high to pay. No risk too great to run. Nothing and no one too precious to sacrifice. No sin too low to countenance.

The world simply could not be allowed to be like this.

Stephens would see to it. Personally.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1960

"Ah, Selden, there you are," said Stephens. "Someone I'd like you to meet. This is Katherine Friemann; she'll be accompanying you to Argentina. Officially, she's your translator."

"So I'm pretending I don't speak the language again?" Newkirk smiled. "Suits me. Last time I learned three new ways to call someone an imbecile, and that was before we got out of the airport. Nice to meet you, Miss Friemann."

She was thin and intense looking, probably in her late twenties, with sharp, hawklike features and eyes that were a bit too keen, and the large hands and slight, stick-straight build of someone who would probably have been taller if not for the childhood malnutrition. She wore her dark hair looped up into some sort of braided coronet, and she was dressed in an extremely conservative navy blue suit and sensible shoes. Not in the least his type, and Stephens, damn him, knew it. Were there no curvy blonde translators in the world?

"A pleasure, Agent Selden," she said. There was the faintest hint of something foreign in her voice; not an accent, per se, but something not entirely familiar.

"Call me Jack," he said. "If we're going to be working together, no sense in being too formal."

"In that case, I'm Kay," she replied. "I was in South America for several years before transferring to this office; I'm looking forward to working with you."

"Oh, were you attached to the Embassy staff down in those parts?"

She blinked, then shook her head. "Not precisely, although we were of… mutual assistance… a time or two."

Newkirk wasn't quite sure what that was supposed to mean. That infinitesimal not-quite-accent was European, he was certain of that much. No rings on her fingers, but maybe she had a brother or a sweetheart on the staff. "Well, in any event, glad to have you onboard. Do you take shorthand?"

She shook her head again, with the tiniest ghost of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "No, I'm afraid not. Never had the occasion to learn."

"No matter," he said, waving it off as irrelevant. "Can't imagine we'd really need it as anything other than window dressing."

"I do know how to type, if that's any help," she said hopefully.

"That's fine," he said.

"Rather slowly. And, I'm sorry to say, I brew a very, very poor cup of tea."

"I see," Newkirk said, growing less and less enthusiastic about this new hire with each passing moment and trying very hard not to let it show.

Stephens was struggling not to laugh. "Selden, much as I'd enjoy watching this go on, I think there's something you need to know."

He frowned. "Yeah? What's that?"

"Miss Friemann is not your secretary. _Agent_ Friemann is your bodyguard."

It was his turn to blink. Then he quirked an eyebrow, gave her a long, cool look. It didn't have much of an effect, because she was now openly grinning, but that might have been partially because Stephens was, too. "Bodyguard. How nice. Just for curiosity's sake, _Agent_ Friemann… how long were you planning to let me go on making an arse of myself?"

"Only as long as it seemed funny," she said, cheerfully unrepentant. "And I thought we'd agreed that I was Kay."

"So we did," he said, a smile beginning to tug at his own lips. She'd caught him out, fair and square, and he was a good enough sport to admit it. "Were you really in South America?"

"I was," she said briefly, the smile evaporating.

"What was your assignment?" Not that there was a great deal of doubt…

"Hunting," she said, briefer still. Her eyes were cold. Her voice was colder.

"Her unit was responsible for the live apprehension of two Nazi fugitives, and one confirmed kill," Stephens said.

He glanced at her, she nodded a brusque affirmation. _Yes, that was me_.

"Well, then," he said. "I feel safer already. Oh, but Kay?"

"Yes?"

"Before we head off for Buenos Aires, let me teach you the fine art of making tea, all right? I'd hate to think I was your _second_ confirmed kill."

The grin reappeared. "Oh, no trouble there. You wouldn't be. And even if you _were_ … you'd never know it."

"All right, Friemann; you're supposed to be at the firing range," Stephens interrupted. "The two of you can threaten one another on your own time."

After she'd left, Newkirk gave Stephens, who was still smirking, a Look.

Stephens was not the sort of man to be fazed by Looks. "There's an old curse, Selden, that has come down from the dawn of time, intact and unchanging through the generations. I quote: I hope that someday you have a child—or, as in this case, a protégé— _exactly_ like you. I did, and have the gray hairs to prove it. Now, my dear fellow, it's your turn in the barrel."

"Stephens, I don't need a bloody bodyguard, and you know it."

"I don't know anything of the sort, and I could name, offhand, at least a dozen medical professionals who don't know it, either. But leaving that aside, sending her along is not entirely for your benefit. She's good. In time, she'll be better than good. With some mentoring from you, I think she could be even more than that."

"So now I'm running a kindergarten?"

"No more than I was. The great cycle of life continues. And by the bye, I'm counting on her to bring you back in one piece, not the other way around."

"I see. I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"It was well earned. And I'm being quite serious about that. I'm trusting her to watch your back. I'm trusting you to make her into the sort of agent I think she could be. It's not a small task."

"When do I get to teach her about not making her superiors look like idiots and then smirking about it?"

"As soon as you learn yourself."

Newkirk silently conceded the point with an eyeroll.

"Quite. Pot calling kettle, my dear fellow. I do think the two of you will get on like a house on fire. But just to be on the safe side… I'd _strongly_ advise you to brew your own tea."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Southeast Asia, 1964

They were holed up in a filthy safehouse somewhere in Laos, on a mission that had already lasted two weeks longer than originally scheduled and showed no signs of winding down anytime soon. They'd been awake for thirty straight hours, powered almost entirely by ebbing adrenaline and thick, tarry coffee, and by the time they fell into bed they were both too tired to sleep and too keyed up to even try.

They had sex, hard and fast and efficient, with the ease of long familiarity, and solely for the purpose of burning off the day's accumulated tension and nervous energy. That accomplished, they caught their breath and started over. This time they made love, slow and tender and thorough, making it count, making it last, reading the history on their bodies. There was a long, puckered seam where a knife had skittered across his ribcage instead of going in; she kissed her way along its full length. He kissed the spot on her shoulder where the bullet had entered, then the one where it had exited. It became almost a game as they alternated, kissing away the old wounds. The line bisecting his eyebrow and into his hairline. The ligature mark around her throat. The shrapnel damage on his left thigh. The electrical burns on her breasts and torso. Rings of scar tissue encircling all four of their wrists. The lash scars on his back. The tattoo on her forearm. And all the others, the unwelcome souvenirs of their various close calls and narrow escapes. The tangible reminders that, by rights, both of them ought to have been long since dead.

Both of them were badly broken in some of the same emotional places, although neither of them entirely understood that on a conscious level, nor had the psychological vocabulary to explain it if they did. But their inner raw, jagged edges fit together as naturally and as easily as their bodies, and on some level they both knew at least that much. For a few minutes, as they joined together, even their scars—visible and invisible—meshed, becoming something whole and clear and beautiful. At least for the moment, they said, not _This is where I was ruined_ , but _This is where I survived._

Kissing an injury doesn't really make it go away… but, as mothers have known since time immemorial, it _is_ a start.

Later, she cuddled up against him, not quite dozing, sleek and sleepy and satisfied. "Kay?" he said. "You awake, luv?"

She opened her eyes, lifted her head from his shoulder, and smiled. "Mmmm. Again? You devil, you."

"No… not that," he said. She smelled like bug repellent and sweat and gun oil, just like he did, but under all of that was something that was uniquely Kay, warm, spicy, and complicated. It made it very difficult to concentrate on what he knew he had to do. "I… there's something I need you to know."

The smile vanished, and she pushed herself up onto her elbow, concerned. "What's wrong, Jack?"

"That's just it," he said, and choked back a wave of abject terror at what he was doing. Of course, several of his teammates already knew, and at least half of his superiors, but he'd never actually _told_ anyone. And anyway, it was the same every time; the horrified looks, the stiff discomfort until they learned to integrate the man they knew with the stories they'd heard. If Kay were to… _Stop, stop right now, you damned fool; what are you playing at? Don't go and ruin things for yourself, not again..._ "My name's not Jack. Not really. I… I'm really Peter Newkirk."

There was no recognition in her face. "All right," she said, uncomprehending. "That's a nice name. Shall I call you that from now on, then?"

"No," he said, rattled at the anticlimax. "Think, luv. I said I'm _Peter Newkirk_. Doesn't that ring any bells?"

She thought about it. "Peter," she said, working it out the way she memorized any other cover identity. "Means 'rock.' New is self-explanatory. Kirk means 'church'. Huh." Something occurred to her, and she smiled broadly. "Thou art Peter, and upon this rock shall I build my new church. You're telling me you're a saint?"

"Hardly," he said, and gave her a short, somewhat harsh précis of the situation, including why and how he'd changed his name. "Don't you remember all the fuss?"

"This was all in '45, you said?" At his nod, she shook her head. "No. I was still locked in the DP camp waiting to see which preventable disease was going to finish me off. My aunt didn't find me for almost a year after the war, and it took a while to get permission to bring me into the country. When she finally managed it, she had her hands full teaching me English, not to mention convincing me that the beat cop wasn't going to live up to his name, and that I shouldn't hide bread in my mattress. Old scandals weren't much of a priority."

His mouth twisted into an ironic half-smile. "Would you bleeding credit it," he said. "I finally get up the nerve to tell someone who I really am, and it turns out to be the one person in the Empire who doesn't know who in hell that is."

She flicked away a lock of hair; it promptly fell back over her face. "If this were a bad film, this would probably be the time for me to say something soppy about how I'd already known who you really are."

"Please don't."

"Didn't intend to."

"Good."

"Not like it changes anything, anyhow. You're you. I'm me." She lay her head back down on his shoulder, all problems officially solved. A moment later, she popped back up, suddenly concerned. "Unless you want it to change something?"

"Nah," he said, still not quite able to believe it was going to be that easy. "Not tonight, at any rate."

"Fair enough," she said, settling back down. "If we don't both get shot tomorrow, we can worry about it then."

She fell asleep quickly enough. He found himself staring at the ceiling for a long time before he could do likewise.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Budapest, 1967

"What in hell were you playing at?" Newkirk slammed a hand on the table. "Are you mad, or just that bloody _stupid_?"

"Leave off," Kay snapped. "It worked, didn't it?"

"That's not the point, and you know it. What in God's holy name were you _thinking_?"

"I was thinking that, oh, I don't know, maybe it would be a good thing if I was to get the intelligence I was sent here to find?" She glared at him. "You know, to actually do my damned job?"

"By taking crackbrained risks that came this close to getting you killed. Oh, that's clever, Kay. Very clever."

"If it's stupid but it works, it wasn't stupid. And you're not exactly one to talk about taking crackbrained risks, are you now? I learned from the best."

"Taking risks when you have to is one thing. Taking unnecessary risks, apparently just for the hell of it, is stupid whether it works or not! That was sloppy, amateurish work, and I bloody well taught you better than that!"

"Define 'unnecessary!' I had a choice. Go in alone, before they knew I was even there, or wait for backup and let it turn into a firefight. I did what I had to, I got the job done, and no one got hurt in the process. That's what you taught me, Penny, and that's what I do."

"Sure. _This_ time, no one got hurt. You got lucky. So next time around, what are you going to do for an encore? Same thing? Something even crazier? You could have been _killed_ , Kay!"

"You don't say! Scheisse! Now he tells me!" Her accent was thickening, just a bit. "That's the nature of the game, isn't it? When it's meant to happen, it'll happen, and if it happens on the job, at least it'll be for a good reason. It's more than anyone else ever offered me."

So was his. "It's not a bloody game! You don't get to shuffle the deck and start over! And if you die because you didn't bother to think things through, it isn't your fate; it's your _fault_."

"So it'll be my fault! Who's complaining? One less assassin in the world is such a terrible thing? I've already had a lot longer than I probably deserved."

His hands clenched into fists. "God damn it, Kay—you didn't die in that camp! You don't have to atone for that!"

Her entire body actually jerked, as though she'd been shot.

"You're not dead," he repeated, in a slightly lower voice. " _Katja_."

"Neither are you… _Peter_ ," she answered, with that rasp in her voice that usually means the speaker is trying very hard not to cry.

They both ran out of words then, not to mention nerve, and the subject was dropped, with the tacit understanding that it would never be mentioned again.

A week and a half after they'd returned to London, Kay and Moore were sent to East Berlin. Selden and Donnelly were sent to Brazil. Neither one had requested the change. Neither one was entirely unhappy about it.

*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

"I just can't quite believe that Newkirk found a woman who had it worse than he did. That's not so easy to do," Kinch said. They had been discussing Stephens' team for the better part of an hour. Circumspection had gone by the wayside two beers ago.

"I wonder if that wasn't part of what he liked about her," said Carter.

"Maybe. That protective streak of his… she would have brought out every mother hen instinct he had. I guess that could have changed to something more personal," Hogan said.

"Not just that," Carter said. "It's what they both went through in the war. Stalag 13 sure wasn't any picnic, but we've all heard about what it was like in those other camps. And _she_ was just a little kid."

"You think he felt sorry for her?" asked Kinch.

Carter looked shocked. "What? No. I think he liked that _she_ wouldn't have felt sorry for _him_."


	13. Chapter 13

London, 1946

Two days passed. Slowly.

When he heard the scrape of a key in the door lock, Newkirk didn't even bother getting up. He assumed that it was either dinner or death, and neither would require much effort on his part. He just lay still, hands interlaced behind his head, and kept staring at the crack in the plaster he'd been studying for the last three hours. It was bound to do something eventually.

"I told them that this approach wouldn't work," came a voice from the doorway. Newkirk tensed; he knew that voice. A young soldier dragged in a chair, then left, closing the door behind him. Stephens sat down. "Shall we begin again?"

"You're the good cop, then?" Newkirk's voice dripped irony. "Here to tell me that you're on my side, and you're only trying to help me help myself, and all that?"

"As it happens, yes," said Stephens. "I _am_ trying to help you, and we've _always_ been on the same side."

"Sounds about right," said Newkirk, and sat up. "Most of the worst things that ever happened to me were courtesy of the fellows on my side. You were there for one or two of them, as I recall."

Stephens nodded. "I remember. We really do have to stop meeting like this."

"Talk to your chums out there. None of this was _my_ idea."

"No, I'm sure it wasn't. Oh, and before I forget." He reached into an inner pocket, pulled out the blank 'confession,' and deliberately tore it in half. "Very dramatic. I assume that this was simply a way of obtaining the pen?"

"No, that was actually something of an afterthought," Newkirk said, and shrugged. "It just seemed like it would be easier all around if we took a short cut to where it was all heading anyway. Didn't work, obviously, but it never hurts to try."

"That's what I don't quite understand. What _were_ you trying to do?"

"Avoid another round of interrogations, mostly. Not to say that these little chats aren't a delightful way to spend an afternoon; it's just that they aren't. No offense intended."

"None taken. Why did you imply that you were going to begin revealing classified information to all and sundry? I thought poor Reed was going to have apoplexy. Nothing in your profile even hinted that you might do anything of the sort."

"Nor would I. But that was the point. I wanted him off balance. I wanted him thinking that I was a risk. A liability. That I couldn't be allowed to leave the room."

"Which, I assume, is also why you walked into the general's office and began criticizing their security measures at gunpoint. Forcing the issue?"

"More or less."

"But why?"

"If the choice is between a pine box and a stone cell… I've had more than my fill of the latter." Newkirk shrugged again. "And if it's a choice between a slow death and a quick one, I've no interest in the former. Those seem to be the only choices you're giving me, and you've got my answer."

"I see. I didn't expect that. I have to say, Newkirk… this isn't like you."

"You can go to hell and take your expectations with you. Don't you dare pretend you know me. You don't," said Newkirk. "I'm tired, Stephens. I'm tired of chains and guards and prisons. I'm tired of fighting. If I can't have my life—and obviously I can't—a bullet between the eyes would seem to be the next best thing."

Stephens stifled a frown. Newkirk didn't do well alone; he just wasn't built for isolation, and eight solid months of bearing the mark of Cain had done him no favors. It wasn't simply the lack of companionship, although there was that, too, of course. Humans are social animals, and Newkirk was more social than most. And it wasn't even a matter of having someone to watch his back, although that was also a factor; God knew he wasn't going to do it himself. No, even more than he needed someone beside him, he needed someone _behind_ him, someone to protect, because that was the only way he knew how to function at all. It was as though he'd never learned how to stand alone, only how to stand between; without the familiar weight of someone leaning on him for support, he had a hard time keeping his balance.

Even more than that, Stephens recognized the expression in Newkirk's eyes. The bitter acquiescence, the bleak, apathetic disinterest that came after defiance had crumbled and hope shattered, when fear had guttered and anger had burned itself out… he'd seen it far too often.

Seen it, and seen it, and seen it, then dreamed of it all night.

This could not be allowed to go on. It simply could not be allowed.

"We can decide that later. You've caused quite a bit of trouble in the last few days," Stephens continued briskly.

"If I'd a penny for every time I've heard that one. So sorry. I'll try to rot more quietly in future."

"Not terribly likely. General Hogan made certain of that."

"Did he, now."

"Yes. I'm afraid that our friend Hogan has spent the last few days making life very difficult for, well… everyone," Stephens said. "He's been like a bulldog. I have a terrible feeling that he'll barge right into 10 Downing Street and begin making demands on your behalf if the thought occurs to him, and I can only hope that it doesn't. Or possibly Buckingham Palace."

Newkirk, despite himself, smiled fondly. "Too right, he would." The smile faded. "He's not in any trouble, is he? I don't want him getting into any trouble on my account."

"Not officially, so far as I'm aware. Annoyance, certainly. And since I happen to know that he's been just as relentless about badgering his own government to grant you political asylum, there might be some irritation on that side of the pond, as well."

Newkirk sighed. "Exactly what I didn't want to happen. I told him to forget about this, before he went and got himself tarred with the same brush as me."

"I don't think he cares. If all else fails, he's probably going to try sneaking you out of the country hidden in his luggage, and by this point, if it meant they didn't have to have any more arguments with the man, I think half the Ministry of Defence would happily let him."

"And the other half?"

"The other half knows that the only reason that the United States would let you into the country would be to recruit you for the same sort of work we would like you to do here. And they don't feel inclined to share." Stephens shook his head. "It's not going to happen, Newkirk. Ever. You're too valuable a commodity to relinquish, even to an ally."

"…Valuable. A valuable commodity. Charming. Tell me—were you planning on having me branded? Or will a collar and leash do well enough?" Newkirk, visibly furious, folded his arms before he could do anything Stephens would regret. "I'm your prisoner, not your property. I may or may not be valuable. But I'm bloody well not for sale, and you can tell them so."

Stephens suppressed a triumphant smile. Anger. Anger was good. Anger meant that he wasn't as numb as he'd appeared. It meant Newkirk was still in there somewhere.

"Perhaps you ought to tell them yourself. In any case, Newkirk, hear me out. I'm making you an offer, not trying to force you into anything."

"Because hauling me off to the Graybar Hotel without so much as telling me the charges couldn't _possibly_ be considered in any way coercive?"

"There are far worse places you could have spent the last few days. Including that godforsaken rookery you've been renting. Newkirk, let me be frank. The war is over, but the work remains. We still need you. We need you to take the expertise you gained at Stalag 13 and apply it, but on a far larger scale."

"Larger than World War Two. Doesn't _that_ sound ominous."

"As it jolly well should. It _is_ ominous. Look, this job is dangerous, but it's not a patch on what could happen if it remains undone. And be honest with yourself—wouldn't getting back into the game be better than _this_?"

"So let me get this straight. If I don't agree to your terms, I swing. If I take the job, chances are I get shot. If by some miracle I make it home, I go right back to the tender mercies of my loving friends and neighbors." He leaned back against the wall. "Attractive offer. I'd tell you where you can shove it, but I imagine you've already got some idea."

"Fairly good, yes, thank you," Stephens said dryly. "As it happens, though, you're wrong on two of the three. I won't say that there isn't a certain amount of risk involved in the mission I'm asking you to undertake. There is. But you can't _possibly_ believe that we have even the slightest intention of killing you if you choose not to volunteer. For pity's sake. What sort of monsters do you think we are?"

Newkirk lifted an eyebrow in an I'll-believe-it-when-I-see-it sort of way. "You really want an answer to that one? It could take a while, but I'd be more than happy to go into particulars."

"Forget I asked. And as for the third, well, that's another thing I wanted to discuss. Here." Stephens opened his briefcase and extracted a thick manila envelope. He handed it to Newkirk.

Newkirk opened it, tipped out a sheaf of papers, and flipped through them, one by one. On the top of the stack was a birth certificate in the name of 'John Rhys Selden.' Then came Selden's vaccination records, and his school certificate, and his service record, and his driving license, and his tax returns, and all the other bits of official documentation that make up a life. Last was John Selden's passport. The identification picture was as appalling as such official photographs always are, but there was no mistaking that face. He slipped them all back into the envelope and set it down on the cot, thinking hard.

"So… that's the offer? I do a job for you, and if I survive, I get a new name and a clean record?"

"No," said Stephens. "That's not the offer. As of this moment, the identity is yours if you want it, no strings attached. It's not a bribe against future favors; it's payment for services already rendered. If you choose, you can take it and leave. No one will try to stop you."

Newkirk filed that last bit under 'transparent lies' and discounted it. "Uncharacteristically generous of you gents," he said. "Odd timing, though. I assume that making Peter Newkirk disappear is primarily about making sure that Colonel Hogan can't find me."

"You really don't trust me at all, do you? No, it has _nothing_ to do with that. Tell him your new name as soon as you like. Send him an engraved announcement. I really don't care."

"Then why now? I've been getting five kinds of crap kicked out of me for months and not a peep out of you. Fifteen minutes after the Colonel starts making waves, I'm spirited off to God only knows where while you alternate between big sticks and even bigger carrots. You didn't want me until you thought someone else did, is that it?"

"Hardly. _I've_ wanted to bring you into the intelligence service on an official basis for quite some time."

"How long is 'quite some time'?"

"Autumn of 1943. I do recognize talent when I see it. But the Goldilocks operation was such a smashing success, pulling you out and reassigning you elsewhere seemed ridiculous, and that's assuming you'd even be willing to go, which you wouldn't have been. Then, a few weeks before Stalag 13 was officially liberated and the operation ended, I broached the subject again. That time, I was overruled by my immediate superior."

"I see."

"I very much doubt you do. I believe his exact words were, 'Merciful Christ, haven't we put the poor bastard through enough?'"

Newkirk snorted. "Well, obviously someone decided that the answer to that one was a resounding 'no.' At which point you figured, in your infinite benevolence, that if you weren't going to hire me, then hanging me was the kinder option. There's probably a logical explanation I'm just not seeing, but from this side of the trap door, that seems more than a bit abrupt."

"I have to agree. But that was never the plan. We didn't lay the charge, and we didn't intend for any of this to happen." Stephens shook his head. "We were blindsided, and that's the honest truth."

"You were blindsided. How nice. Says quite a bit about your outfit, that does. Tell me why that's supposed to be some sort of inducement to work for you?"

"Perhaps you could think of it as proof we need your help."

"Perhaps you could think of it as a good reason to find another line of work for yourselves. Answer's still no."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: The 'Graybar Hotel' was an American slang term for prison, (like the equally euphemistic 'Graystone College,') but I'm assuming that after a number of years with a bunch of Yanks, he might have picked up more than a few of their phrases.


	14. Chapter 14

Stalag 13, 1942

A thin figure in ragged RAF blue sidled up to a small group of Americans, began a low-voiced conference. Judging from their body language, it wasn't an especially friendly conversation, but it was still the most animated interaction Hogan had seen yet.

"Say, Wilson, what can you tell me about him?" Hogan asked, curious, as the man produced a package from underneath his tunic and handed it over, receiving something too small to see in exchange.

Hogan had been in the camp for a little less than two weeks. He had been acquainted with one Corporal Peter Newkirk for a little more than two days, and if anything, he felt as though he knew less about him now than he had two days ago. Hogan didn't like feeling mystified. Asking the camp medic for his opinion was not exactly ideal, but it was the best plan he'd yet come up with.

"Who, Newkirk? Let's see. He's an old-timer, so whatever else you can say about him, he knows how to survive. He's the guy you go to if you want something; he can usually arrange to get it for you. Black market, probably; I never asked and I don't want to know, but I assume some of the guards are willing to play ball in exchange for a cut of the profits. His prices are steep as hell, but since he's the one taking most of the risk, they're not unfair."

"Connections like that could be useful, I suppose," Hogan said, unenthusiastically. "God knows we're going to need a whole lot of things that the Krauts wouldn't approve us having. Trustworthy?"

Wilson shrugged. "I guess. He's hard to get a read on, and he can be kind of a pain in the neck. There's even a bit of betting as to whether a Kraut or a kriegie will do for him in the end. Right now, I think the smart money's on the Krauts, but that could change."

"Someone's _making book_ on who murders the guy? Jesus— what kind of sick bastard would do a thing like that?"

Wilson just looked at him.

The penny dropped. "He's running the betting pool himself, isn't he?"

"Mm-hmm. He runs card games, too, and if he's not cheating, he's got the devil's own luck. I think he ends up with more of the guards' pay than they do, and he's holding markers on pretty much every man in camp."

Hogan made a face. "Great. Sounds like a real peach."

"Hang on, Colonel. There's another side of the story. He did some _very_ hard time over a vial of penicillin that went missing. The Kommandant was having a litter of kittens over it. Ranted and raved like a dime-novel villain. Said he'd keep us standing in the snow until someone pointed the finger. No one did, and I was treating frostbite cases for two days afterwards. Newkirk 'fessed up after an hour or so. Except that he couldn't possibly have stolen the damned stuff."

"How can you be so sure he didn't? That stuff's worth its weight in gold. More."

"Because I'm the one who did." Wilson shook his head. "After he got out, he made a beeline for the infirmary and told me, and this is a direct quote, that he just hoped I was a half-decent medico, because I was a piss-poor thief. And that in future, I should leave the scrounging to people who, ahem, bloody well knew what they were doing."

"Why did he take the fall?"

"I wondered that myself. According to _him_ , it was because he figured that he could either be punished along with everyone else in camp and get nothing out of it, or he could take the hit alone and have it clearly understood that I owed him one. According to my barracks chief, it was because whenever stuff goes missing, the guards tend to just assume that it was him, so he was up the creek either way. According to the ranking POW at the time, who, I might add, was not much of an advertisement for our side of the war, it was because he didn't have the stones to tough it out like the rest of us. According to the guy I needed the drugs for in the first place, it was because Newkirk would have taken a hell of a lot more than that to make sure he had something that at least resembled proper medical care. You can take your pick as to who you believe."

"Guessing games. Great," Hogan said. "And I still don't like the idea of anyone who chums around with the Krauts."

"He takes their money fast enough, but he's got no love for the master race. That much I'm sure of," Wilson said. He paused, then added, "Just my opinion, Colonel, but I believe his buddy's version of the story. And I said he holds markers. I never said he calls them in."

Hogan reevaluated the man, who was now smoking a leisurely cigarette in the lee of one of the barracks more than halfway across the compound. He'd thought he was being unobtrusive about it, so it was slightly embarrassing when Newkirk looked straight back at Hogan, grinned like the Cheshire Cat, and waggled his fingers in a sarcastic 'hello.' Hogan nodded gravely back, attempting to salvage the situation and fairly sure he hadn't succeeded.

Wilson, who caught the entire byplay, suppressed a laugh. There wasn't much amusement to be found in a POW camp, but watching the irresistible force and the immovable object squaring off qualified.

Hogan ignored him.

*.*.*.*.*.*

There was a yelp from the middle of the compound. Then there was shouting, in that special mixture of broken English and they-might-not-understand-the-words-but-they'll-figure-it-out-from-context-dammit German peculiar to stalags. And then there was another pained yelp.

Hogan, leaving the Kommandantur after a grueling conversation with Lange, recognized the voice, and he hurried across the compound. "What the hell…?"

Kinch and Forrest were loitering nearby, and Kinch put a calming hand on Hogan's arm. "Nothing to worry about, Colonel," he said. "Everything's going according to plan."

" _What's_ going according to plan?" Hogan shoved past them and rounded the corner. Newkirk was just picking himself up off the ground; a guard was standing over him and shouting some standard issue threats. Filthy English swine, beat some respect into you, clumsy oaf, cooler, blah blah blah, ranting, raving, and so forth. Newkirk, for once in his life, was not arguing back; his hands up in a conciliatory pose, he seemed to be trying to smooth things over. A second guard, his truncheon already in his hand, looked more than ready to join in the fun.

"They're going to beat him into the middle of next week! I've got to go over there and—"

"Don't worry, Colonel," said Forrest. "Believe me. He's not in any real danger. Let him finish."

Hogan gave him a hard look. "This is a setup? And you didn't see fit to let me in on it?"

"Spur of the moment; we didn't have time to get you. But yes, it's a setup, and he's done this before," Forrest said. "In a moment—yes, there it is," he said, as the first guard lost his patience and backhanded him. If one knew what to look for, which Forrest did, it was just barely possible to see Newkirk rolling with it, stepping backwards just enough that he wasn't really taking much of the force of the blow.

He reeled anyway, staggered back, and fell heavily against the second guard, who shoved him roughly away. Newkirk, disoriented, ended up back on the ground. This time he didn't even try to get back up; he curled into a ball, wrapped his arms protectively around his head in mute surrender. The guards spat a few more choice comments his way, but the game seemed to be over. Laughing, they walked off.

Newkirk waited just long enough for them to disappear around a corner before he unfolded himself, sprang nimbly back to his feet and strolled to where the others were standing, with a bit of a smirk on his face.

"Well?" Forrest said.

"Our packages definitely arrived sometime in the last day or so," Newkirk said, reaching into his tunic. "There's nowhere else Jager could've gotten American cigarettes," he continued, producing a pack in his left hand. His right hand opened to reveal a couple of candy bars. "Nor did our dear friend Schwartz find English chocolate in the local shops."

"So you went up to them and picked a fight over it?" Hogan was annoyed, and felt no need to hide it. "What's wrong with you?"

"Did you want that list alphabetically, or in order of severity?" asked Kinch.

"If that's supposed to be a joke, _Sergeant_ , I'm not laughing," said Hogan, in a tone only about three shades removed from a full-scale dressing down.

"Nor am I! Some mate _you_ are," said Newkirk.

If his intent had been to lighten the mood somewhat, he had failed miserably. If his intent had simply been to get Kinch off the hot seat, Hogan was more than happy to oblige.

"And that's enough disrespect out of _you_. I asked you a question. What could possibly have made you think that was anything other than the stupidest thing I've ever seen?"

Newkirk squared his shoulders. "Sir. There is a very small window between the time when those packages arrive and the time when Lange sells them and has himself a night on the tiles with the proceeds. Unless I know when that window is, I can't retrieve any of the packages. If I can't steal us a few of them, we go hungry. We saw Jager and Schwartz having a smoke, got suspicious, and I investigated. That's all there is to it, Colonel."

"I'll grant that your heart was in the right place; it was still stupid. That 'investigation' could have landed you in the cooler or the infirmary if things hadn't worked out the way they did. Or the morgue."

"With all due respect, sir; I had things under control. We've been doing this for a long time now."

"I don't care what you've _been_ doing; from here on out we do things _my_ way, is that understood? Believe you me, there's going to be more than enough risk to go around, and it'll damn well be for better reasons than a few boxes of candy and spam." Hogan found himself wanting to take the lot of them by the lapels and shake some sense into them. Had they just been inside too long? Where was their sense of proportion?

Forrest snapped to attention. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Old habits, I'm afraid, but that's no excuse, sir. It's my fault."

"Never mind assigning blame; damage control comes first. Newkirk, you go slip those things right back into the pockets they came out of before the Krauts notice they're gone, then report to my office. Move it! The rest of you—my office! On the double!"

Newkirk's lips had compressed into a tight, grim line, but he nodded crisply and left. The other two traded glances as they walked to the barracks, Hogan a pace ahead of them.

When they reached the office, Hogan just looked at them for a moment, his anger seemingly gone. "Still don't trust me enough to let me in on your little schemes, huh? I'm this close to giving up on you. I'm not sure what it is I need to do to get through to you guys, and I'm starting to think it isn't going to matter."

"What do you mean, Colonel?" asked Kinch.

"I mean that we've got now isn't going to cut it. From here on out, I'm not asking for your cooperation, I'm demanding it. I expect to be informed of anything and everything going on in this camp. Is that clear? No more surprises. If a mouse makes a nest in this camp, _I want to know about it_. I've had this conversation with you men more than once, and I've just about had it!"

There was a tapping at the door. Hogan glared at the other two men once more, and jerked it open. "You two—out. Newkirk, in here. Now!"

Newkirk came in obediently enough, and came to attention, his face a carefully blank mask. He was no stranger to fizzers, Hogan suspected; angry words or disciplinary measures would simply roll off his back. That was not going to be the way to get through to this most… incomprehensible of his new command. He was going to have to try a completely different tack.

"Newkirk, I get what you were trying to do and why," Hogan said. "God knows I can't fault your team spirit, but don't try it again. Getting our packages is _my_ job, not yours."

"Sir. Yessir," he replied, eyes focused on something about two feet behind Hogan.

"I mean it. No more of those little stunts, and especially not without telling me what you're planning. It's just not worth it, for such a meager payoff. One wrong move, and you really could have ended up badly hurt. Or worse."

Newkirk blinked a few times, obviously taken off guard. "Yes, but… sir? No disrespect intended, but what do you care if I do?"

The mere question was so foreign to everything Hogan held sacred that he didn't even know how to react. "What the hell do you mean, 'what do I care?' You're part of this outfit! Why wouldn't I care?"

"If I were to take a kick or two, hard cheese for me, wouldn't you say? It would be my problem, not yours. I wasn't risking anyone else."

Hogan shoved his cap further back on his head. "Look at it this way. If you're out of commission, for whatever reason, that means you're not available for any jobs I might need you to take. Is that enough of an incentive for you?" _Please don't let that work,_ he prayed. _Please don't let that be how you really think. Please don't let that be how you think **I** think._

All prayers, it is said, are answered. It's just that, sometimes, the answer is 'no.' Newkirk, for once in his life, must have completely failed to notice that Hogan was being sarcastic, because apparently, it got through to him. He actually flushed a bit, chagrined. "Oh. Hadn't thought of that. I'm sorry, Colonel."

 _Damn it!_ thought Hogan.

*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1946

Hogan still wondered if Newkirk had ever truly recognized that Hogan had not been serious about that callous 'incentive.' Hogan also still wondered if he had ever truly given him any reason to think otherwise.


	15. Chapter 15

London, 1969

With any luck, Kay thought, no one had noticed that she'd been reading the same report for twenty minutes without turning any pages. She still had no idea what it said, and no particular interest in finding out. She was thinking about something a bit closer to home. Or farther, depending on how you looked at it.

She looked up, rubbed her eyes, stretched cramping shoulders. Moore was standing by Newkirk's desk; he'd picked up his photograph and was examining it.

She bit back a sharp _Don't touch that!_ before it could escape, and walked over to stand beside him.

"They haven't changed all that much," he said, studying the picture. "Older, of course, and a few cosmetic details here and there, but they still look very much the same."

"That's true," she agreed. "They haven't changed much at all. I'm glad they came. After hearing the stories all these years, it's good to finally meet them in person."

"Judging from what I heard in that conference room, their behavior hasn't changed, either. They're bound and determined to find this alleged mole, get revenge for Selden."

"Well, so am I, come to that. I'd be more surprised if they weren't. Can you blame them? Jack always said they were the best friends anyone ever had."

Moore frowned. "Kay, that's more than half of the reason we have to get them out of here. We can't let them go blundering about playing detective. It's not safe. If there truly is some sort of treasonous behavior going on, the last thing anyone wants is for them to be caught in the crossfire. Jack would never forgive us."

"Wait. 'If?' _If_ there's something treasonous going on? An _alleged_ mole? What are you getting at, Jules?"

"I'm saying we don't know anything yet, and we can't go jumping to conclusions. Think about it. Fine, _maybe_ one of us is secretly a traitor. Or maybe the Stasi are a tyrannical, brutally efficient secret police force who didn't need our help to sniff out a defector and do something about it. Which seems likelier to you? Simple logic, Kay! And suspecting one another only makes us more vulnerable."

"Maybe," she said warily. "But pretending that there's no cause for suspicion doesn't make us any safer."

"Don't you understand? It almost doesn't matter if there is or not. Either way, these men can't be here. They can't be any part of this."

"That makes no sense. Why not? Who better?"

"Anyone! They're too close. No objectivity. They're thinking with their broken hearts, not their brains, and that's a very good way to get a lot of people killed."

"Objectivity? _None_ of us are exactly feeling objective about any of this."

"I know. Especially not you. If the old man has any sense, he'll keep you out of it, too, but that's probably too much to hope for. But at least _your_ death wouldn't cause an international incident. Hogan's could. No chance of keeping any of this quiet if that happens."

"Thanks, Julian. I'm touched by your concern."

"It's not a joke, Kay." He ticked the possibilities off on his fingers. "If there really is a traitor, then Hogan and his men could be the next targets. Or collateral damage. If so, we have a duty to protect them. Even if they're not, they could easily muddy the waters enough that the real traitor could slip away, and God only knows what he'd do next. If there isn't, then they'll waste a lot of time and energy chasing shadows while we sit about and accuse one another. Neither outcome is helpful. Look, I heard the same stories you did. I'm sure that during the war, they were every bit as good as Jack claimed they were. But that was a long time ago, in very different circumstances, and I'm not sure they realize that."

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair." He handed her the photograph. "Kay, Jack was our friend. We owe him at least this much. We can't save him now. We _can_ save his friends. Go talk to them. Convince them to go home."

"Why me? Stephens is the one they know and trust."

"Because you're the one Jack was shagging. It gives you a level of credibility that none of the rest of us have. They'll listen to you."

She glared at him.

"What, did you think it was some sort of secret?" He snorted. "We're spies, Kay. It wasn't hard to spot."

"Not a secret," she said. "Not from my teammates, anyhow. Tact, now… some vestige of tact might have been nice."

"There's a reason I didn't join the diplomatic service. Tact isn't my strong suit. It comes down to this. Either you care enough about Jack to want to save his friends, or you don't. You tell me which it is."

"…You're a right bastard, Jules," she said.

"True. And you're a cold-blooded killer. No one's perfect. Are you going to help me or not?"

She looked down at the photo in her hands. The image had faded with time. The happiness on the young faces had not. "I'll talk to them. That's as much as I can promise."

"It's a start," said Moore. With a nod, he left the room.

She looked at the photo in her hands again, and then carefully, with mathematical exactitude and no expression on her face, put it back on Newkirk's desk, exactly where it belonged.

Donnelly came over. "Kay…" he started.

"I'm _fine_ , Neil," she said shortly.

"Sure, and of course you are. Not what I was asking. I couldn't help but overhear most of that."

"Not when you had your ears perked up to catch every last syllable, no. What is it?"

"Moore. Does it strike you that he's been just a touch… odd… since this whole thing began?"

She smiled faintly. "Odd? Julian Moore, odd? He's always a touch odd. It's what he does best."

"I'm not talking about his inability to grasp the mere concept of tact. For once, the trouble wasn't the way he was saying something; it was what he said," said Donnelly. "He was all but frantic to get Selden's mates away from here. Insisting that they couldn't be allowed to search for our Judas, and even more insistent that there was no Judas to be found."

"If anything happened to them, there would be hell to pay; he wasn't wrong about that much. And the war was half a lifetime ago. He wasn't wrong about that either."

"So you agree with him?"

"No. I don't. But he's not being entirely unreasonable."

Donnelly sighed. "Much as I enjoy a spirited debate with the Devil's Advocate, we have to move quickly. I'll ask you again. Does it not seem strange to you that Moore is so determined to stop any investigation before it even starts? What doesn't he want us to learn?"

She studied him. "Mostly, it sounded as though he didn't want us tearing ourselves apart suspecting one another."

"If one of us really did kill Jack, then I for one bloody well _want_ to do some tearing. And I'm willing to take my share of the lumps until we find the bastard." He set his jaw. "And I can't find it in me to believe that you don't feel the same. I know you better than that."

She nodded.

Donnelly put a brotherly hand on her shoulder; this time she allowed it. "Kay, Hogan and his men could be the answer to a prayer. Even if they're no help in and of themselves, having them running about making a nuisance of themselves might well be the saving of us. Our traitor will show himself by his reaction to them. He'll not be able to help it. Misdirection, as Selden always said."

"Watch my right hand, and my left does the work while you're distracted," she quoted softly. "And if they're still as sharp as Jack always said they were, perhaps they'll find him without our help."

"From your mouth to God's shell-like ear," said Donnelly. "They deserve the vengeance, and the closure, just as much as we do." He picked up the photo again, and with a sad smile, walked over to place it on her desk. "Almost as much as _you_ do, Kay."

She bit her lip, smiled bleakly. "Almost," she agreed.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

They had hashed out the outlines of the most ridiculously over-complex parody of an intelligence operation ever designed. Worse than anything they had ever done in Stalag 13; worse even than anything Marya had cooked up. It would probably have given Schultz a heart attack, and James Bond and Emma Peel would have tendered their resignations on the spot. The plan was perfect. That was good. That meant they had nothing more with which to distract themselves. That was bad.

"I told him that it was past time to quit," LeBeau said. "Years upon years of all but begging to be killed; someday, someone was always going to oblige. Why? I keep asking myself, why? Why did he let this happen?"

"That's a good way to go crazy, LeBeau," Kinch said. "There's no real answer to a question like that, and you know it. That's just war. Hell—that's just _life_. Bad things happen to good people."

He snorted. "Yes. I said that once. He just laughed and said that meant he was completely safe. That since only the good die young, he'd probably live forever."

Hogan winced. "He would. Look, LeBeau. I don't have any answers, and none of this was fair. He deserved a hell of a lot better than he got, and we all know that."

"We know that. Yes. The question is, did he?"

"Probably not," said Carter. "But LeBeau… he died doing something important. It wouldn't have been right to take that away from him."

"Carter's right," said Hogan. "He went where he was needed. He _always_ went where he was needed. That's who he was."

"What you needed. What we needed. What MI6 needed. What the Allies needed. What everyone in the world needed. _Formidable_. What about what _he_ needed? Why was that never even part of the conversation?"

"Being needed _was_ what he needed!" Hogan had had about three hours of sleep in the last two days. He'd also had three stiff drinks in the last two hours, and his control was starting to fray around the edges. "You know that, LeBeau! Hell, you knew that before any of us so much as met him!"

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Stalag 13, 1944

Captivity is a bitter, bitter thing. A person—especially a person who had never been a POW—might have thought that it would get easier as time passed, as horror faded into routine and fear into frustration. If so, that person would have been dead wrong. If anything, it became harder to bear the longer it lasted, and the mere fact of waking up one morning and realizing that the indignities and tiny tortures of prison life _had_ become commonplace and unremarkable was an extra twist of the rack.

Stalag 13 was different, of course. They all told themselves that, given their volunteer status and the ever-growing tunnel system, they weren't _really_ prisoners. They weren't. They were men; they were soldiers, they were performing vital work in a war that none of them doubted was both just and necessary. In fact, given the possible alternatives, they were lucky, that was the only word for it, unbelievably lucky.

It wasn't always easy to remember that when they were being deloused, or while the barracks were being tossed, or whenever roll call lasted more than an hour—Corporal Otto was probably his mother's pride and joy, but on a professional level, especially on days when the mercury in the thermometer had apparently frozen solid, most of the prisoners agreed that it would be kind of nice if they could be counted by someone who had a somewhat firmer grasp of the difference between 'five' and 'seven.'

(Seriously, the kid needed some remedial math education. Pronto. He'd hit a personal best, a few weeks ago. Counted them six times and come up with six different totals, all of which, as it happened, were wrong. And for once, none of them were being difficult; no one was missing, or extra, or sneaking around to be counted a second time. The Colonel had said, dryly, that he knew he shouldn't complain, because Otto's innumeracy did come in handy on the days when they genuinely _did_ have something to hide, but the rest of the time, he was a menace to both sides of the war.)

The mood in the radio shack was jubilant; the Germans were going to wake up short one very important bridge, and not only had they not been caught, they hadn't even been pursued. It had gone like clockwork.

"Boy, did you see that bridge go up?" Carter asked for the third time, his eyes still aglow. "Kablooey! We blew that one so high that I'll bet parts of it are still falling from the clouds!"

"We sure did," said Kinch, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Great job with the bomb, Carter. One of your best."

"It was a great job all around," said Hogan, with that dangerous grin on his face. "I'm proud of all of you."

"Hey, wait," said Carter, the grin melting off his face. "Where's Newkirk? I thought he was right behind me."

"He was," said Kinch. "You don't think…?"

" _Non_ ," LeBeau said immediately. "It is impossible. There was no one chasing us!"

"He's right. If something had happened, we would've heard something. Dogs, gunfire… high girly screams… something, anyway," said Hogan. "I'll go make sure."

He set off back down the tunnel, wishing that he really was as confident as he had to appear. What could have gone wrong? This mission had been a cakewalk! What had he overlooked?

To his complete lack of surprise, three sets of feet fell in behind him, and he stifled a sigh. Then he forced just a bit more spring into his step. For their benefit.

He climbed the ladder, opened the tree-stump just a crack, and peered out. He couldn't quite suppress the sigh this time, or the visible wave of relief that passed over his face. Turning back to his faithful shadows, he flashed a quick 'okay' signal, and followed it up with a 'get lost' flick of the fingers before opening the trap door all the way and slipping out into the night.

Newkirk was sitting next to their tree-stump tunnel entrance, taking an extra two minutes of free air, with a weary exhaustion in his face that had nothing whatsoever to do with a day spent on a work detail, followed by half a night tramping through the woods with a full pack of dynamite slung over his shoulder. And then the other half of the night tramping _back_.

Hogan sat down beside him. "This is a lousy place to take a cigarette break," he said easily, with no heat in his voice.

"Seeing as how I ran out of smokes yesterday, I'd have to agree, sir," Newkirk replied. "I'm sorry, Colonel. Just wanted a minute to myself. Outside. You know how it is, sir."

God, yes. Hogan knew. They all knew, and they all did it occasionally. It was risky, maybe even foolhardy, but every once in a while, everyone needed a moment or two outside the wire. Not to go anywhere, not really even to do anything. Just a few minutes of freedom, to let the invisible chains slip from their wrists and ankles. And if those invisible chains were just a fraction heavier when they walked back into prison—when they _chose_ to walk back into prison—it was not a thing anyone ever discussed.

Tonight, the invisible shackles must have been weighing on him even more heavily than usual. Newkirk looked worn out. Or perhaps worn down; his shoulders were ever-so-slightly bowed, and the moonlight silvered his hair, carved cruel hollows onto his pale face. Hogan looked at him from the corner of his eye, and suspected that he knew exactly how the man would look at eighty.

It was no secret that their jack-of-all-trades corporal was more than a bit wire-happy. Too proud to say so, and far too stubborn to give in to it, but wire-happy nonetheless. Impossible to say whether it was due to his too-long residence in the camps, to certain dark memories he refused to discuss, or simply his innate nature, but it was common knowledge that confinement rasped at him from the inside out, hollowing him out like a newly-dug tunnel, and just as liable to collapse.

"You are a volunteer, you know," Hogan said quietly. Fair was fair. "You could go home. You've earned it, if anyone has."

Newkirk turned to stare at him, incredulous. And offended. "What's that supposed to mean? Got tired of me, have you?"

"Of course not," Hogan said. "Just a reminder. You can leave. No one would think any less of you."

"Can't, shan't, couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't, and won't," Newkirk said flatly. "This is where I'm needed, and I'm here till the Krauts throw in the towel, Colonel. Whatever I did to make you think otherwise…"

"You didn't," Hogan assured him. "I… sometimes I like to remind myself that _I_ could go, too."

"Oh. Right," Newkirk said, mollified. "We all remind ourselves of that every once in so long, I suppose. We all know it's bollocks even as we're thinking it, but I suppose it's only human nature."

"Probably," Hogan said. "But I mean it."

"So do I." For once, there was absolutely no humor in Newkirk's eyes. "This is where I'm needed. This is where I'm useful. This is where I stay. Sir." He got up, went to the tree-stump hatch and met Hogan's eyes before opening it. "No, Colonel Hogan… you're stuck with me. For the duration, and as long afterwards as necessary."

*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: This is a few months before Berlin Betty. There are no ulterior motives to his staying in Germany.


	16. Chapter 16

London, 1969

The office had a well-used dartboard, because Stephens believed that taking a few minutes of relaxation here and there could only improve the quality of work that often spanned hours if not days of intense, unrelenting strain. Since the team was largely composed of highly skilled, and fiercely competitive, marksmen, simply throwing the darts had long since gone by the wayside. Now it was throwing them blindfolded, or over one's shoulder, or dangling upside down, or whichever spur-of-the-moment improbable variation happened to occur to them. The idea of taking the next logical step and instituting a similar game at the firing range had been sporadically discussed and regretfully discarded.

As the work day ground to a merciful end, a few of the team members were standing by the board, trying to dredge up the enthusiasm to play a quick round before going home. Kay, usually one of the more reliably imaginative players, didn't even bother to try; she just put on her jacket, waved a desultory farewell, and headed for the door.

Moore caught up with her in the corridor. "Have you thought about what I said?" he asked urgently.

"I have," she said.

"And?"

She stopped, and looked right at him. "I'm going to find General Hogan. And I'm going to tell him that if there's anything, _anything_ , I can do to help him find Jack's murderer, he doesn't even need to ask."

Moore's face tightened angrily. "You're a damned fool, Kay," he ground out.

"No, I'm a cold-blooded killer, don't you remember?" she shot back. "Hogan has the best chance of getting to the bottom of this, and that's really all I care about just now. I'm going to trust him."

"Based on _what?_ Ten minutes' acquaintance and Jack's pillow talk? You're choosing to trust a total stranger rather than your own team!"

"Someone on my own team is a murdering _traitor_ , Jule. I know you don't want to believe it, but I do. It's one of us. Trusting a total stranger is the only card left in my hand."

"Fine. Go ahead and play Miss Marple if it makes you feel any better," Moore said. "You do realize that by any measure in the book, you'll be the prime suspect, don't you?"

"Me?"

"You. _Cherchez le femme_ , for a start. Oldest motive in the world."

She rolled her eyes.

"More to the point," he continued. "You said that someone on this team is a traitor. Not necessarily true, now is it? By definition, a traitor betrays their own country. And it isn't as though you're really British."

Her voice was like ice. "If you're quite finished…?"

"Oh, I'm finished, all right. Go on, waste time chasing phantasms. And good luck trying to prove your own innocence while our team crumbles to dust and ashes. When everything goes to hell, remember that I tried to save us. And, while you're at it, bloody well remember that you weren't the only one who cared about Jack!"

Moore stormed away, back towards the office. Kay, equally furious, stalked towards the elevator. Their unnoticed eavesdropper frowned as some very unwelcome conclusions began forming in his mind.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Laos, 1964

The dream started like it always did. He'd long since trained himself to sleep silently, motionlessly, but he couldn't do anything to hide the cold sweat, and as the dream barreled its way to the inevitable conclusion, it gave him away.

What woke him was the voice, a soft, calm voice whispering little endearments, telling him, over and over, that everything was all right, that he was safe, that he could rest. In German.

It didn't help.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Kay treasured a few jumbled, vague impressions of a woman with gentle hands who had kissed her when she cried, who had smoothed her tangled hair away from her face and whispered soothing reassurances in German. She thought those hands, that voice, might have belonged to her mother, although she wasn't sure about that. It didn't matter. Even in hell, someone, she felt certain, had loved her. Cared for her. Jerked from a sound sleep by the sudden icy chill and the palpable terror of her bedmate, she automatically reverted to those words, those actions, that tenderness.

There were other memories, terrible memories, and they had been in German, too, but when it came right down to it, for her, German was the language of comfort as much as it was the language of death.

Newkirk had no such memories, and awakening from a German-inflected nightmare to a German-speaking reality tipped him over the line into full-blown flashback. He lashed out, batting her arms away.

Kay's voice didn't falter. "Jack, wake up," she said, switching back to English. "Jack, do you hear me? It's Kay. Breathe. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. Jack, you've got to wake up! It's all right. You're not there anymore. It's all over."

He didn't seem to hear her. She remembered the conversation they'd had a night or two ago, and she tried a new tack. "Peter. Peter, love, you have to wake up. It's not real, Peter—you're safe now. It's all over. I promise. You are _not_ there anymore. You're here, with me, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Breathe, Peter. Breathe."

As the dream shredded into nothing, he took a deep, raspy breath, then another one, and the world snapped back into focus. He slumped bonelessly back down onto the pillow.

She let out a relieved breath. " _There_ you are," she said. "Better?"

"Yeah," he said, internally cringing. He knew what the next question was going to be. "I'm all right. Thanks."

She surprised him. "Good. Think you can go back to sleep?"

He blinked at her. Usually at this point in the proceedings, someone asked what was wrong, what had he been dreaming about, did this happen often? And then, when he declined to discuss the matter, it usually meant the end of whatever relationship had been in progress. Wasn't she going to make him explain?

She shrugged. "You're not the only one who has bad dreams," she said, answering his unspoken question. She wasn't going to ask. "Do you want to try to go back to sleep, or would you rather stay up for a bit until you're sure it's not going to start right back up where it left off? That's what I usually do."

"Huh. Do you now," Newkirk mumbled. It occurred to him that every once in a while he'd wake up to find that a report had been written, or their guns oiled, or, sometimes, breakfast made. He'd never thought to wonder why.

"I know that nothing's ever going to make them go away," she admitted quietly.

"Nor mine," he agreed. "Not likely."

"So if there's nothing to be done… might as well do it," she said, and managed approximately half a smile. "Feeling better?"

"I am," he said. He couldn't quite believe it, but he actually was. "But next time you've got nothing to do… wake me up, all right? Two can do nothing easier than one, I'd say."

She looked searchingly at him, saw that he meant it, and nodded shyly.

If either of them had any more dreams that night, they didn't remember them in the morning.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Russian Front, 1943

He was still alive. He intended to stay that way. The question was how.

The Russian Front was something like he imagined Hell would be, and possibly a bit worse than that. At least Hell would have the advantage of being warm. This fool's errand of a campaign was madness, and he had no intention of laying down his life for a lost cause.

Colonel Lange had no intention of laying down his life for _any_ cause. He was going to get out of this frozen wasteland, and he was going to get back to his nice safe stalag, and right after he decorated the central compound with a few well-chosen, and well-ventilated, corpses, he was going to spend the rest of the war quietly feathering his nest and not being shot at. That was the plan. That was how it was going to be, damn it, because that was how it ought to be. That was what he deserved, and that was what he was going to get.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

"I've arranged hotel rooms for all of us," Hogan said, as they left the pub. "Nothing too fancy, but a real step up from Barracks Two, at least."

"So long as it has a bed, I'm sure I'll love it," said Kinch, raising a hand to hail a cab. "I'm so tired that even those rickety bunks would look good."

"Those bunks were only that rickety because we kept using bits of it to brace tunnels," Carter objected.

"I was sleeping on them before we started digging tunnels," Kinch reminded him as a taxi pulled up. "Trust me; they were that rickety from the get-go."

Hogan gave the driver the address, and squinted at the narrow back seat. "No room," he decided. "You two take this one; LeBeau and I will get another. We've been through a lot together, but I draw the line at sitting in your laps."

"All right. See you in the morning, Colonel," said Kinch, getting in.

"Yeah. Good night, guys," Carter chimed in.

The cab sped away, and Hogan lifted his hand to hail another one.

LeBeau shook his head. "I am not going to the hotel. I have a key to Pierre's _appartement_ , and he has a guest room. I shall stay there one last time."

"That sounds nice," Hogan said. "Say, mind if I come too? I was only at his place once, and it was a long time ago."

LeBeau wondered if Hogan was carefully not saying that he didn't want to be alone, or if he simply thought that LeBeau oughtn't to be. It didn't matter, he decided. He didn't want to be alone either, and he especially didn't want to be alone in a flat that he knew would be full of ghosts.

" _D'accord_ ," he said. "I cannot imagine that Pierre would have objected."

Newkirk's current flat, it transpired, was a far cry from the one Hogan had seen in '46, which was something of a relief. It was small, but it was in a reasonably nice building, in a fairly good neighborhood, and everything in it was neatly maintained and comfortable to the point of hedonism. There was a large bookcase in the living room, filled and overfilled with well-worn volumes, and a deep, inviting armchair that looked like the ideal place to read them, not to mention a color television. The kitchen was quite obviously that of a man who had no interest in cooking, and only the tea kettle looked as though it spent much time on the stove, but his bed had the sort of thick, sybaritic mattress and fluffy duvet that they had all spent half the war—the nighttime half—wishing for.

And yet it was strangely impersonal. It was a pleasant place to sleep, a convenient place to store whatever clothing he was not currently wearing, and not much more than that. Newkirk had spent most of his career in places he had to be ready to abandon at a moment's notice, and it seemed that extended to the place that was, ostensibly, his home.

LeBeau, for lack of any other ideas, drifted to the bookcase and scanned the titles. It was an eclectic mix. There were the usual literary lions; Shakespeare and Wilde and Kipling and that ilk. There was rather more poetry than one might have expected. There were lighter novels. There was history, including several volumes on the Second World War that, it transpired, had some very remarkable annotations written neatly in the margins. And on the shelf second from the top, secure in a cardboard slipcover, were the two thick volumes of Julia Child's _Mastering the Art of French Cookery_ , their spines a bit worn with heavy use. Incredulous, LeBeau pulled the books from the shelf.

They had been glued together, and when he opened the cover, he saw that a neat rectangle had been sliced from most of the pages, transforming it into a box. The book-safe was obviously meant for emergencies; it contained a handgun, and a generous supply of ammunition. In addition, there was a thick wad of currency from several countries, and a key ring. He looked at the keys. One looked like a housekey, but another, smaller one, he guessed was probably for a safe deposit box. Heaven only knew what was in it. False identification papers, maybe. Or perhaps the Hope diamond. Where Newkirk was involved, anything was possible.

The bottom of the book-box was padded with a folded bit of cloth, faded and old, but it was still recognizable as a RAF flight cap, and when LeBeau pulled it out of the box, the identity disks that had been tucked inside it clattered to the floor.

"The one book whose title he could never forget," Hogan said quietly, picking them up. The name on the tags was not 'John Selden'.

"The one book he would never read," corrected LeBeau, his voice husky.

"That too. But still. This was the stuff he'd grab if he ever really needed to run for it, and when he wanted a safe place to hide his essentials… he thought about a French chef," said Hogan. "Take the compliment, Louis."

"Essentials? A gun, some money, whatever this key unlocks, and a name he did not dare to use. It is not much to show for a life."

Hogan didn't have an answer for that. "Let's get some sleep," he said, instead. "It's been a long, miserable day, and tomorrow isn't going to be much better."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Newkirk usually wins the 'non-dominant hand' version of darts. Moore is surprisingly good at the 'blindfolded' version. Kay is more or less unbeatable at the 'dangling upside down' variant. Stephens has a knack for the 'throwing over his shoulder' version. Donnelly, who is ambidextrous, has a natural advantage at the 'one in each hand' double-throw version. And now you know.


	17. Chapter 17

London, 1969

Newkirk's flat had a spare room for guests, with a single bed. His own room had a double bed… presumably, also for guests. Hashing out the sleeping arrangements was not easy. Neither LeBeau nor Hogan really liked the idea of sleeping in Newkirk's bed, (any more than they had liked swapping bunks back in Barracks Two,) but since it was the more comfortable of the two, both of them sounded quite selfless when each insisted that the other one should take it. They finally settled the matter by flipping a coin.

It wasn't until Hogan was pulling Newkirk's duvet up to his chin that it occurred to him that LeBeau had had nearly thirty years, and quite literally every opportunity, to learn about slight of hand and rigged coin tosses from an acknowledged master of the art form. Hogan had been snookered, and he could almost _see_ Newkirk grinning at him.

For all that he was genuinely exhausted, though, sleep proved elusive, and it wasn't because of a ghostly bedmate. After an hour or so of ceiling-staring, pillow-flipping, sheep-counting, and all the other time-honored attempts at getting some much-needed rest, Hogan gave up. Kicking off the blankets, he got up, went back out to the main room. Judging by the soft snores coming from the spare room, LeBeau was not having the same trouble sleeping, so Hogan felt safe in flipping on a light.

He scanned the bookcase again, looking for something calming to read. Shirer's 'Rise and Fall of the Third Reich' was certainly not that, although the fact that it was sandwiched between 'Tropic of Cancer' and a manual on bicycle repair was at least somewhat intriguing. Hogan didn't see any particular order to the books, but there was always the chance that there was some recondite system he just wasn't seeing. Even if there wasn't, if asked, Newkirk might well have pretended that there was.

A tattered volume of Kipling's poetry was at eye level. Good enough. Hogan pulled it off the shelf, settled down in the overstuffed chair, and opened it. Newkirk's personality all but leapt off the page. He obviously did not believe in leaving books pristine for the next owners; he'd improved the larger part of the volume, underlining or bracketing verses that had struck his fancy, commenting on some poems, and illustrating others with thumbnail sketches in the margins. So many of the poems were about soldiers facing a war that didn't care what became of them, then going home to a country that didn't care, either. So many of the verses were in that familiar dialect, so full of dropped Hs and rough city tones, that it was almost hard to differentiate what they were saying from the way they were saying it.

Hogan flipped through the book, looking mostly at the underlined passages. _O thirty million English that babble of England's might; behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food tonight._ More than twenty. _Stand up and meet the war, the Hun is at the gate._ Nothing ever changed, did it? _In spite of being broken, Or because of being broken, Rise up and build anew._ Good advice, if hard, and Newkirk had followed it every day of his life. _We haven't had any tea for a week; the bottom is out of the universe!_ Heh. How often had Hogan heard variations on that complaint? _I was a shepherd to fools… Yet they escaped. For I stayed._ Oh, God. Damn it, Newkirk…

He stopped at a page entitled 'Epitaphs of the War.' It wasn't one poem, but a number of short verses or couplets. One of them had been enclosed in a neat box, with a rather good sketch of a USAAF crush cap alongside.

 _Body and Spirit I surrendered whole, To harsh Instructors—and received a soul…_

 _If mortal man could change me through and through, From all I was—what may The God not do?_

The page dimmed for a moment as Hogan fought to keep his composure. Newkirk had never understood that the Unsung Heroes operation hadn't given him any virtues that he hadn't already possessed in abundance. Hogan had done nothing except to offer him an opportunity to get killed and then let Newkirk be the sort of man he was meant to be, and had reaped the rewards of that offer a hundredfold; how could that possibly have merited such misplaced gratitude?

He flicked a few more pages, stopped at one called 'Helen All Alone.' He'd never heard of it. Judging from the amount of embellishment, though, Newkirk had given this one a great deal of thought. Most of the margin was taken up with a sketch of a huge locked gate, with two indistinct silhouettes slipping through the bars, and roughly three quarters of the poem was underlined. Hogan read the first verse; it was about an escape. A man and a woman, damned, doomed, and desperate… but together, they ran towards freedom.

 _When the Horror passing speech Hunted us along,_

 _Each laid hold on each, and each Found the other strong._

Hogan looked more carefully at the illustration, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. One figure, he assumed, represented Newkirk himself; the other was smaller and slighter, with long, pencil-dark hair, and their hands were firmly clasped. Newkirk had always been a romantic.

He read the next verse, and his smile faded. When the narrator had made it to safety, Helen had abandoned him without a word or an explanation. And he had been glad of it; the darkness of their imprisoned past was not something he wanted to share. The last verse began _Let her go and find a mate, As I will find a bride, Knowing naught of Limbo Gate, Or Who are penned inside._

Hogan stared at the page for a moment. The second line was not underlined; it was struck through. Newkirk had not been emphasizing the possibility of love; he had been denying it. Helen had gotten him to safety, and then left him alone on the shore, and he thought that was the way things were supposed to be. _Kay isn't Helen_ , Hogan thought, sickened. _I am_.

He stood up, put the book back on the shelf. Then he set his teeth and reached for the book he _really_ wanted to see, the one he knew perfectly well he'd intended all along to reexamine. Julia Child's weighty masterpiece slid into his hand as if it had been waiting for him, and he opened it. The cash was an irrelevance, the keys were a mystery. The cap and identity tags were heartbreaking. The gun was… pragmatic. There had to be something more than this. There had to be.

A lot of Newkirk's choices had been made for him, whether he liked them or not, and Hogan knew that he was responsible for at least some of them. He wished there was some way of making it right.

He thought about Moore's stiff nonanswers, his dismissive comments to the effect that Newkirk was better off dead, and, worst of all, his smirking epitaph, 'more a brigand than a hero.'

Sure, they had their trap all planned out. It was clever. It would work.

Hogan almost didn't want it to work. He didn't want to play out the scenario—opening, move, countermove, and endgame. He just wanted to end it. Now. Tonight. He wanted justice. He wanted revenge. And maybe he wanted forgiveness for the part he'd played in all of it.

*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1946

"You know, you remind me very much of myself at your age," said Stephens, after a moment. "And I mean that as a compliment."

Newkirk looked mildly affronted. "Perhaps you do. I'm not taking it as one."

"Your prerogative. Newkirk, let me level with you. The Goldilocks operation was successful beyond our wildest dreams, and there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that without you and your associates, the war would have gone much differently."

"You're right about that."

"Yes. There is also no doubt that it will all have been for nothing if we don't keep at it. There are still certain… elements that we need to find and neutralize," Stephens said. "We didn't capture every Nazi leader; several of the worst are still out there. And that isn't even taking into consideration the ones we don't know we need to find; the sympathizers, the deep cover agents, or simply the disaffected and angry. There is still a pro-fascist element, and they are here. We need to find them. We need to catch them. And we need to know what they're planning to do before they can plunge us all back into yet another war."

Newkirk's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything.

"We haven't had much luck infiltrating their ranks, I'm afraid. They're suspicious. They're careful." Stephens met his eyes. "But they'll talk to a traitor."

Newkirk held his gaze for a long moment. When he finally spoke, there was no more anger in his voice. Just a sort of sad, disappointed comprehension.

"So _that's_ what it was really about. I'd wondered. The arrest, the show trial, the publicity, making me out to be some sort of cross between Guy Fawkes and Judas Iscariot… even that sad, sad story of how the Krauts beat me into submission, setting the stage for a dramatic last-minute gesture of mercy that only added contempt to the hatred. This is what it was all for, then, is it? You set all this up, just so you'd have the right bait to help you flush out the last few bad 'uns?" It wasn't even an accusation, just a summation. His voice didn't crack, although it was a close-run thing. " _That's_ why you did this to me? Just for that?"

"No. No, Newkirk, I didn't. I _didn't._ This wasn't some Machiavellian plot; I never meant any of this to happen. But since it did, well, I'm just trying to…"

"—To take up the broken pieces and put what's left of me to good use. Waste not, want not."

Stephens didn't flinch at an unpleasant truth. "Yes," he said evenly. "And to give you one last chance at a more meaningful life than you're otherwise going to be offered. To be blunt, Newkirk, you don't have all that many other options."

"No. You saw to that, right enough," said Newkirk, looking intently at something about two feet above and to the left of Stephens' head. In a conversational tone, not looking away from whatever it was up there he found so fascinating, he said, "You know, a day or two ago, I had a roof and a job. Not much else, I'll grant you, but I'd managed at least that much for myself. Today, I certainly don't have the roof anymore, and not showing up for work means I probably don't have the job, either. When I said that there wasn't anything more for you to take from me, you really weren't meant to take it as a _challenge_."

Stephens looked away.

Newkirk wasn't done. "And we both know that if I were to walk out of here like you say I can, with or without that lovely new identity, if I were to try, yet again, to claw out some sort of life for myself, all that's ever going to happen is that you, or someone just like you, will send the goon squad right back out to feel my collar inside of a month. You're never going to let me go, are you? Valuable commodity that I am, and all? Prisoner or slave. Those are my choices, aren't they? Can you at least bloody well do me the courtesy of being _honest_ about it?"

"You're wrong. Those aren't the only choices you have. There's a third choice, and it's the one I'm asking you to make. I don't want you as my captive; I want you as my comrade-in-arms. I'm asking you to take everything you've learned, everything you've become, and use it to serve your country."

"Do me a favor! I've just spent six months waiting for my country to put me to death. And then I got to spend two more being shown how much better off I'd've been if it had done." His gaze snapped downwards as abruptly as a searchlight or a bullet. "And at no point in those eight months did you, or anyone else, bother telling me what you had in mind."

"Espionage isn't the sort of thing you put to a debate, Newkirk. It isn't a democracy."

"It isn't supposed to be blackmail, either. You could have _asked_ me to do this. I've been in one nick or another since 1939; I wasn't exactly hard to find. You could have come to my cell at any time and _explained_ what you needed from me. If you didn't want to do that, you could have at least taken five minutes to tell me it was all right, that it wasn't just you deciding that three could keep a secret if two of them were dead. Which, just for the record, is what I assumed was happening, and I'd like to point out that I kept your damned secrets anyway. And if you _had_ decided to play it safe, you could have had the simple decency to look me in the eye and say that you were sorry it had to be this way, right before you pulled the white hood over my head. You could have treated me like a man instead of a tool to be used and thrown aside." He shrugged slightly. "You could have. The Colonel _would_ have. You didn't. There's not much more to say, is there?"

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

Hogan woke up to kitchen noises and the sort of glorious aromas that made staying in bed for a little extra sleep not merely foolish, but downright impossible. He walked into the kitchen; LeBeau was just plating an omelet that looked like a magazine illustration, and he'd poured out a mug of coffee that smelled like heaven.

"I have to admit it; I missed this kind of treatment after the war," Hogan said. "For the first couple of days I'd get up, walk to the mess, look at what they were serving, and wonder why I'd looked forward to being liberated."

LeBeau laughed. "I should have the food critics add that to my Michelin review," he said, sitting down. "I can see it now. 'Better than military rations.' Patrons will flock to my door."

"They do anyway," Hogan said, sugaring his coffee. "You whipped all this up just from what Newkirk had on hand?"

"Pfft. I was lucky that Newkirk had a frying pan," LeBeau said. "No, I stepped out early this morning and bought a few eggs and the rest of this. I never quite got out of the habit of rising at dawn and going to market for the freshest ingredients."

"Dawn? Really? There were days Schultz all but had to pry you out of your bunk."

" _C'est vrai,_ but it turns out that it is far easier to wake up early when you have not been awake all night blowing up bridges."

"Good point," said Hogan. "But on that subject, are you ready to go back in there and blow up a rat?"

"Oh, yes, _Colonel,_ " LeBeau said, his eyes determined. "More than ready."

They took a cab back to MI6; when they got there Kinch and Carter were waiting in the lobby. They looked worried.

"What's up?" Hogan asked.

"We don't know," Kinch said. "But they won't let us in, and they won't call Stephens to let us in, either. I don't like this."

"Something's gone wrong," Carter agreed.

"Is there a problem, chaps?" Donnelly was just flashing his badge at the desk security, and he joined them.

"Seems like it," Hogan said. "Do you think you can get Stephens to talk to us?"

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded decisively. "Let's cut out the middleman. I'll bring you up myself." He turned back towards the guard, and gestured towards the heroes. "They're with me, and Stephens authorized them yesterday."

The MP looked dubious, but accepted that, and Donnelly led them back into the building. "Sorry about that. Can't be too careful where safety is concerned, I suppose, but I can't imagine that any of you have gone rogue since yesterday," he said, and laughed.

Brewer was just leaving the office as they approached, and sighed with relief. "Donnelly! Thank God you're all right. And you gents too," he tacked on as an afterthought.

"What's happened, then?" Donnelly asked, going from polite friendliness to high alert in an instant.

"Come and see," Brewer said, opening the door.

Stephens, under more rigid control than Hogan had ever seen him, nodded a stiff greeting. "General Hogan, I'm glad you're here. Your mission is hereby cancelled. It's over."

"What? Why?" Carter asked, irrepressible as ever.

"Because we already have our traitor," Stephens said, and pointed at his office.

Moore was inside, slumped limply at his own desk. The gun he must have used was still clutched in his cold hand. The codebook he must have used to communicate with his German contact was on his desk blotter. The congealing blood was everywhere.

Hogan studied the scene and didn't say a word.


	18. Chapter 18

London, 1969

Hogan and the others retreated to the conference room and sat down at the table again.

"Boy," said Carter. "I sure didn't expect that."

"No," Hogan said, eyes narrowed. "But we probably should have."

"What do you mean, Colonel?" asked Kinch.

"I mean it's too convenient. Too easy," he said. "Is it just me, or did that look staged to anyone else?"

LeBeau shrugged. "Perhaps he simply did not want to face the consequences of his actions."

"Maybe. But if it were me, I would've tried to bluff my way through. At the very least I'd have tried to make a run for it before I gave up," Hogan said. "I would have had a _plan_ for how to divert suspicion from myself. This is too pat."

"He's definitely the one _I_ thought had done it," Carter said. "If he was being as much of a jerk to the other agents as he was to us, maybe the real killer thought that _everyone_ would think he was the one."

"Exactly," said Hogan.

Kinch frowned. "Stephens seems to believe it. He said flat out that he didn't need our help anymore, because he already had his traitor."

Hogan nodded. "He sure did. So either he's falling for this hokey suicide explanation, hook, line, and sinker, or he's trying to make the traitor _think_ he's falling for it, to lure him out into the open."

Kinch nodded slowly. "So what are we going to do about it? Sounds like our plan just went out the window."

"Yeah, I think it did," Hogan said.

Carter looked disappointed. "We're still going to do _something_ , though, right?"

LeBeau shifted in his seat. "I do not see what we _can_ do."

Hogan cleared his throat. Before he could continue, though, the door opened, and Kay walked in.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said in a flat, controlled voice. "But this entire office is now a crime scene. We are all being asked to leave while the forensic examiners do their job."

"Of course," Hogan said, getting up. "We'll just get out of their way."

"Thank you," she said, lifelessly. "This way, please."

Hogan considered and rejected the idea of asking if she was all right. She wasn't all right. Either one of her teammates had killed Newkirk, and then himself, or else one of her teammates had killed both Newkirk and Moore, and was still at large. She was so far from 'all right' that she probably couldn't have found it with a high-powered telescope.

He reached into a pocket, and pulled out Newkirk's key ring. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course," she said. "What is it?"

"I found these at Newkirk's apartment. Do you have any idea what they're for?"

She took the keys, studied them for a moment, and a smile licked at the corners of her mouth. "I can guess," she said. "The little one is for a safe deposit box; it will have a few things for emergencies. A full set of identity papers, contact lists, that sort of thing. More importantly, there would be anything else he would want to make sure he had if he had to suddenly disappear, and that he wouldn't want anyone to find in his flat afterwards. And if it's anything like _my_ box, there will be a few Deltas in there, too."

"Deltas? What are those?" asked Carter.

She counted the letters off on her fingers. "DLTTYA. Don't Let Them Take You Alive. We're all given a few, in case we _really_ have to disappear."

Kinch winced. "That's a grim thought."

She had a small silver locket around her neck; she tapped it with a finger. It was just big enough for a couple of tablets, and it was tarnished with long wear. "It's a grim world."

Hogan nodded. "And the other?"

She gave him a sidelong glance. "My flat. There are things in there that I'd rather my family didn't see. If it came down to it, he was going to do a quick tidy before my aunt had to wonder why there was a small arsenal hidden in a false bookcase."

"I see," Hogan said, not believing a word of it. There were reasons a woman might give a man a copy of her house key; that wasn't one of them. Although it had probably seemed like a viable excuse at the time.

Just as she had the day before, she flashed her ID to let them out of the building and hurried back inside. The four men started down the street with no very clear idea of where they were going, or what they would do when they arrived.

LeBeau, with the preoccupied, deliberate pace of a man with a great deal on his mind, lagged behind a bit. After about half a block, Hogan turned and went back to get him.

LeBeau didn't even let him say a word. " _Mon Colonel,_ " he began abruptly. "I heard you walking around the flat last night, and the cookbook was on the table this morning. I must ask. Did you do this?"

Hogan blinked, and a weight of tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying slipped off his shoulders. "No," he said simply. "I wanted to, but I didn't. And to be honest… I was going to ask you the same thing. You left and came back before I even woke up, and the apartment isn't that far from this office."

LeBeau relaxed. "Good. I was afraid. I would not have told, but the police might have figured it out for themselves."

"So it wasn't me, and it wasn't you. But it was someone," Hogan said, as they caught up with the others. "Someone really did murder him. Kay proved it."

"She did? When? How?" Carter asked.

Hogan made a gun with his fingers. "Guns are loud and messy and they hurt. If Moore had really wanted a ticket out of here, don't you think he would've he have used one of those Deltas she said they all have?"

"I probably would have," Kinch said.

"Yeah," said Hogan. "Me too. We've still got a killer to find."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Argentina, 1962

Kay had been too quiet all day, and it was making the hair on the back of Newkirk's neck stand on end. She was bent over her desk, scribbling busily on a notepad. Periodically, she ripped the sheet off the pad, crumpled it in her fist, and threw it away. Every time that happened, the paper was wadded a bit tighter, and hit the wastebasket a bit harder.

"All right," Newkirk said after a while. "Out with it."

"I'm pretty sure this message is an Enigma variant. I'm also pretty sure that I'm not a good enough cryptographer to decode it."

"I'm not talking about the intercepted message and you know it."

"Then I don't know what you _are_ talking about. Must be Thursday."

"Pull the other one," Newkirk said. "And it's Sunday. According to God, we're not supposed to be working at all. Talk."

"It's nothing," she said. "It's a sad anniversary, that's all, and I don't want to talk about it."

Without really noticing it, the two of them had evolved a sort of tacit agreement to the effect that certain aspects of their respective pasts were not fit topics of conversation, but he knew that most of her 'anniversaries' were sad ones. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear it," he said. "What was it?"

She threw down the pencil and stood up, knives in her eyes and acid on her tongue. "Oh, bother. And here I thought I'd said that I didn't want to talk about it. You'll have to forgive me; English isn't my first language."

He shrugged. "Usually, when someone says he doesn't want to talk about something, it's because he'd rather not admit that it needs talking about." Louie had taught him that. Louie had been right. He hadn't enjoyed most of the ensuing conversations, and in all likelihood, Louie hadn't either, but he was honest enough to recognize that they were probably one of the main reasons he was still sane.

She glared at him, then looked sharply away. "It's the fifteenth of April," she told her interlaced fingers. Her knuckles were already turning white with pressure. "It's the day the Allies marched into Bergen Belsen."

"How is that a _sad_ anniversary?" Newkirk remembered his own liberation vividly. It had been one of the best days of his life, even if it hadn't ended quite the way he might have preferred.

She studied her knuckles a bit longer, lips pressed tightly together and brow furrowed. "I looked up the exact numbers later," she finally said. "There were sixty thousand of us in there when your lot arrived. Do you know how many of us died in the first few days of our so-called freedom?"

He shook his head.

"Fourteen thousand. Almost one in four," she said. "Thirty one thousand of us were dead by autumn. More than _half_. It was a charnel house. They had to burn the place to the ground in the end. And do you know what they did then?" She didn't even wait for a head shake that time. "They took us straight to another camp, and they locked us right back up again! They took us out of one hellhole, and they clapped us into another before the ashes were cold!"

 _I was in a British prison less than a day after I'd gotten out of a German one_. He remembered telling the Colonel that. And he remembered how gutted Hogan had looked when he'd heard. It was a strange thing, having the same conversation twice, once from either side. If anything, he decided, this side was worse.

He kept his voice even; if she was anything like him, pity was the last thing she'd want. "I'd heard that the DP camps weren't all that good."

"That's one way to put it. After everything, all the years of fighting to stay alive for just one more day, pinning all our hopes on the war ending, what did we get? What was that hope worth? Oh, there were no more mass executions, I suppose I ought to be grateful for that much, but we were still starving, still packed like sardines in a tin, and still looking at the inside of a fence day in and day out. _That_ was our liberation. _That_ was what they decided we were worth." She made a sound that was probably supposed to be a laugh. "Just one more betrayal for the collection. You know what? Half the time, the only difference between the Englanders and the SS was that one of them was speaking a foreign language. I had to figure it out from _context_. But when your teacher is holding a rifle, you learn fast. And then there's no difference at all."

That actually shocked him. What in hell was he supposed to say to that? "You're an Englander now, too, you know," he finally said.

"Am I?" she said. "Am I really? Because my parents thought we were Germans, and goodness gracious, were they surprised to find out they were wrong. How can I be sure that I'm not going to be in for a surprise or two of my own somewhere down the line?"

Another unanswerable question. Except that it wasn't; the answer leapt from his tongue before he even knew what he was going to say. "Because if you are, it'll be over my dead body," he said. It surprised him as much as it did her, and he backtracked a bit. "And the rest of the team's, too. It's never going to happen, Kay. Not here. You know that, don't you?"

"…Yes. At least, I knew it yesterday," she said, and the protective anger collapsed, leaving only a naked, helpless grief in its wake. "And I'll know it tomorrow. Today… the anniversary is always hard, that's all. I'm sorry, Jack. I'm being a fool, and you shouldn't have to deal with it. Just ignore me."

"Shan't. And don't apologize," he said. "Nothing foolish about this, not in the least."

"Why, Jack? I still can't _understand_. Why did it have to happen?" she asked, after a while. "Why did any of it have to happen?"

He gave her the only answer he had, in the gentlest voice he owned. "I don't know, Kay."

She choked back a sob, obviously at the end of her rope. "But why does the world have to be like this?"

"It doesn't," he said. "Do you hear me, Kay? It _doesn't._ That's what _we're_ for, Stephens always says. We do what we do to give the world a fighting chance to be… better than it is. We're here to see to it that someday there won't have to be any more people like us."

He thought she heard him; _something_ had penetrated past the utter agony in her eyes, but she was beyond replying in words. She just stood there, beaten and alone, head hung low, her shoulders bowed and her arms held tightly to her chest—her left hand gripping the end of her braid like a lifeline, her right hand clasped over her tattooed forearm—and trembling all over like a spent horse. He didn't even think about it. He just reached out and pulled her close, the way he had held his sister when she was afraid. The way LeBeau had held him when he'd cracked. The way everyone needs to be held sometimes. It doesn't change anything, but that's almost beside the point. It's necessary.

He didn't kiss her. It didn't even occur to him that he might someday want to. Not then. They had slid past Person-The-Boss-Ordered-Me-To-Work-With almost immediately, found their way into Reliable Colleague territory with no particular effort, and had achieved the heights of Trusted Partner by their second joint mission. But that had been the simpler half of the equation. Off the job, being (by nature) cheerfully gregarious on the outside and (by experience) painfully slow to trust inside, it had taken them a while to get past the shoals of Office Mate and into the deeper waters of Real Friend. Lover—casual or otherwise—wasn't even on the map. Yet.

But in some inexplicable, non-physical way, she _fit_ against him, like a fresh-cut key slipping into an oiled lock, and he vaguely sensed how easy it would be to let long-closed doors creak open. How utterly simple. How utterly impossible. He pushed the thought away before it could do any harm.

She cried with the silent, wrenching, body-racking sobs of a person who had learned too early and too well that she had no right to ask for comfort, and less than no right to need it. Any such weakness was an automatic death sentence in her world. He recognized it immediately.

He had never seen her—no one had ever been allowed to see her—as anything other than indomitable. The Kay he knew was fearless, jaunty, sharp-eyed, sharp-witted, and sharp-tongued, dedicated almost to the point of obsession, and always, always up for anything. He had seen the tattoo before, of course, and he knew what it meant, but he hadn't known that any of this was lurking beneath.

When a bone breaks, it grows back stronger in the broken place, he remembered that from somewhere. But that didn't mean that the break had never occurred, or that it was a good thing, and it didn't even mean that it mightn't keep right on hurting even years after it had finished healing.

It was hard to tell if Kay was stronger in the broken places, because she was nothing _but_ broken places. Part of him wanted to tell her that he understood what it was like to lose everything, even—especially—hope. Part of him wanted to tell her that while it might never get better, it would at least get easier. He didn't. All of him knew that it wouldn't have helped.

All too soon, she got herself under control and pulled back to stand on her own. "Thank you, Jack," she said. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"See what?" he asked, with a half-smile that was a promise, _I'll never tell_. "I didn't see a ruddy thing. Now let's have another crack at that Enigma variant, shall we?"

She half-smiled back, and the Kay he knew began to coalesce back into place through sheer willpower. "Good idea. So far as I've gotten, it's either the plans for a new superweapon or someone's shopping list."

"Those can be quite tricky to tell apart," he said, and pulled up another chair beside hers.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Kay isn't being entirely fair. But she isn't entirely wrong, either. The first few months after liberation were chaotic, and the documented conditions in the Bergen Belsen DP camp were pretty awful at first. Not for lack of compassion, but, well. It was an impossible situation. They weren't being imprisoned for punitive reasons, but because there was nowhere else for them to go. Thousands of people were simply too far gone to be saved. Disease was rampant. There was not enough food sent to the camp, not intentionally, but because there literally wasn't anything to send them. There was no free access in and out of the camps for a time; some soldiers were quoted later as feeling as though they were still running a concentration camp, and they were horrified by it. Things got so bad that the internees staged a hunger strike to protest the living conditions. Things did improve by the summer of '46… just in time for her to emigrate. This is a deeply traumatized child's view of things; it is _not_ an objective description of the British treatment of Holocaust survivors, and no insult is intended.


	19. Chapter 19

Stalag 13, 1945

Liberation Day

Newkirk had politely waved away a seat in the first convoy out of Stalag 13, which was entirely reasonable; it made sense that he'd prefer to ride with his friends, none of whom were in that first group. True, logistically speaking, he probably should have been aboard; most of the other RAF fliers were. But then, everyone in Stalag 13 knew that if it came down to arguing with either Newkirk or a brick wall, you were better off taking your chances with the masonry. You had at least a _slim_ possibility of winning the argument, and it was a less frustrating opponent, to boot. Kinch and Olsen were in the second convoy, though, and Newkirk had only shaken his head to a suggestion that he join them.

LeBeau had been in the third, with the rest of the Free French POWs. He didn't even suggest that Newkirk join him; they were going to Paris, not London. They had said their goodbyes earlier, in private, and the waves they exchanged as LeBeau left were almost convincingly casual.

Baker and Carter were in the fourth; Carter was actually a bit hurt when the Englishman had bluntly refused to take the seat next to his own, the one he'd saved specifically for Newkirk's use.

"Can't, Andrew. Something I've got to do first," he said.

Carter looked as though he was going to argue, but he thought better of it. He swallowed hard. "Oh. Okay. Well, then… I guess this is goodbye," he said.

"I suppose it is," Newkirk said. "Take care of yourself, Andrew. Been an honor serving with you."

"You too," Carter said. "And I wanted to…. Well, you've been about the best buddy anyone ever had. Boy, I just wish—" He stopped, out of words for possibly the first time in his life. Then he threw his arms around Newkirk and hugged him.

Newkirk froze for a moment, then hugged him back. "Good luck back on Civvy Street," he said. "I know you'll do splendidly. Just try not to blow up anything people might want later on."

Carter grinned. "No promises. Boy, I really couldn't have picked better guys to be locked up with. I wish you and LeBeau were coming to America with the rest of us. But maybe someday you'll come to Bullfrog, or I'll come to London, and we can catch up."

Newkirk forced a smile. "Maybe. Would be nice."

"But keep in touch, anyway," Carter said. "You've got my folks' address, right?"

"I do. And as soon as I'm situated somewhere permanent, I'll write and let you know," Newkirk said, fairly sure that he was lying through his teeth. "But you're about to miss your ride out of here; best get moving."

He thought for a moment that Carter was going to hug him again, but he mastered himself in time, and swung himself into the truck. The motor roared to life.

Newkirk stood still, propped against the wall of Barracks Five, and watched the truck roll through the gates. There was a system; you went to the rec hall, sorted yourself out by nationality, presented yourself to the appropriate officers, who cross-checked your name and serial number against their little lists, and once they'd decided that you probably were who you said you were, you got a seat on the truck and drove away. There were a lot of men in the camp, and most of them had been crammed in from other, further-flung camps at the last minute. The records were a shambles; the process was likely to take at least another full day.

Fine by him.

He wasn't in any hurry. He wasn't about to start the process before it was absolutely necessary, and he certainly wasn't going to do so before the rest of his friends were long gone. If matters proceeded the way he expected they would, he wanted as few witnesses as possible. He'd far rather his friends remembered that last farewell at the gates than a last farewell at the… well, anyhow, they didn't need to know and it wasn't as though they'd be able to do anything even if they did. Why burden them if he didn't have to?

"Don't tell me you're already feeling nostalgic about this dump," came a voice from behind him.

"Nostalgic? For this? Colonel, have you been at the bottle this early in the day?" Newkirk said. "No, I was just thinking that I'm sorry we didn't let Carter leave a few of those timed charges behind. Watching this hellhole light up the sky… well, sir, it would've been a nice memory to take away with us."

"Yeah. Speaking of things we take away… why are you still here? God knows you've got seniority. You should have been first out."

"Couldn't do it, sir. First out… I just couldn't."

"Why not?" Hogan shoved his cap back, looked at him.

Newkirk shrugged. "Because I was first _in_ , sir. I need to see it through to the very end. I was first in… I have to be last out. So I know, really _know_ , that it's all over."

That reasoning, to Hogan, at least, seemed as natural as his own heartbeat; it was very similar to the reason he himself hadn't made a beeline for the first available vehicle.

"The gates are open, Newkirk. The guards are gone. It's over," Hogan said anyway.

"Not yet, it's not. There are still men in here. If I look back over my shoulder and see faces behind the wire, if I have to live with that picture in my head, a part of me will stay locked up here until the day I die. Thanks, but no thanks. I've waited this long to get out; I'll wait the extra bloody day or two while they shuttle the rest of the men off to safety, if it's all the same to you, sir." It was true, every word of it. It wasn't the _whole_ truth, but it wasn't a lie, either. Newkirk would have needed to be last out even if Berlin Betty had never stepped foot in Stalag 13. And wouldn't it have been nice if she hadn't.

"You'd've made one hell of an officer," Hogan said, shaking his head.

"No need to be insulting, Colonel," Newkirk said.

Hogan laughed. "I'm going to miss you, Newkirk."

"Keep practicing. Your aim will improve eventually."

Hogan gave that the eye-roll it deserved, then got serious. "I mean it, Newkirk. It's been an honor serving with you."

"No, sir. The honor was all mine," Newkirk replied, and snapped to attention. He saluted, one last time. "And I wouldn't have missed a _minute_ of it, sir, not for all the jewels in the crown. Just you remember that."

Hogan returned the salute, more moved than he quite wanted to admit. He would never have expected this, back in 1942. Newkirk, on first glance, had looked like a dishonorable discharge waiting to happen; a lazy, insubordinate, self-centered discipline problem with the survival instincts of a cockroach and about the same number of redeeming features… who just so happened to have a skillset Hogan needed, one that he was not likely to find in a less repellent example of humanity.

Hogan still didn't know quite what had prompted him to take a second look. Blind luck, subconscious instinct, divine intervention… possibly all three… but taking the time to realize that his first impressions had been wrong in literally every way possible had been one of the best decisions he'd made in the entire war. Probably one of the best decisions he ever _would_ make.

"I couldn't have done this without you, you know that?" he said. "For three straight years you argued with me, you challenged me, you picked holes in my plans, you pointed out when I was wrong, and you backed me to the hilt anyway. You're a good man, Newkirk, and I'm proud to know you."

Newkirk ducked his head, embarrassed. He didn't do well with open displays of emotion, Hogan knew, and he grinned, to lighten the mood. "Of course," he continued, with the old mischievous glitter in his eyes. "There _were_ days I would have bet my last nickel that if the Krauts didn't shoot you, our side just might have to do it ourselves."

"Well, the war's not quite over," Newkirk said cheerfully, after only the most infinitesimal of pauses, with a gleam in his own eyes and a saucy grin that probably counted as the greatest acting job of the twentieth century. "Still time to see the bookmaker."

"I'll pass. Look, I've got to go back to London for immediate debriefing," he said. "And after that I'm being sent home to report back to the Pentagon. But I'll be back in London in a few months. I'll see you then, all right? After listening to you rhapsodize about the pubs there for three years, I hope you'll give me a guided tour of the good ones."

Newkirk's eyes flicked away for a moment. "Depends on how many of them are still standing; from what I've heard, a lot of the places I used to go aren't there anymore. But we'll see what can be arranged, shall we?"

"Great. I'll hold you to that," Hogan said. "So I won't say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. I'll just say 'see you soon.'"

"Maybe," Newkirk said, very, very softly, as Hogan climbed into a jeep and drove away, with what looked like a very overawed Yank corporal at the wheel, and he prayed that Hogan would be too busy to remember a round of drinks he knew they were never going to have.

*.*.*.*.*

The last batch of no-longer-prisoners was being processed in what was nearly a carnival atmosphere. Newkirk reported in with the rest of them.

"Name?" asked the lieutenant behind the desk.

Right. Moment of truth time. "Corporal Newkirk, sir. Serial number one-eight-four-two—"

Automatically, the young man began flipping through his lists to check off his name… then stopped as his brain caught up with his ears. "Newkirk?" he said, giving him every chance to recant. "Corporal _Peter_ Newkirk?"

So much for that. "Yes, sir," he said, knowing what was coming.

The lieutenant's face hardened. "Then you're under arrest."

Newkirk let out a breath, then slowly lifted his hands in surrender. He wasn't surprised, and he had lived with this for too long to even really be all that disappointed that it was starting all over again. But part of him did resent how natural and unthinking the gesture had become. Resented how unremarkable it felt to be utterly at the enemy's mercy.

The cooler was full of Germans, those few who hadn't deserted in those last few desperate months. The soldier went down the row, peeking through the Judas holes in the doors until he found one that was not already filled to capacity. He picked up the heavy iron key and opened the door.

Newkirk went in under his own steam before the guard could get any clever ideas about pushing him in. Klink was already inside, looking devastated. "Oh. Hallo, Kommandant," he said.

"Newkirk. Are you here to gloat?" Klink asked bitterly.

"No," Newkirk said flatly, and left off the honorific. They were well and truly on the same footing now, after all. Klink was sitting on the cot; that didn't leave any other seating options. He sat down on the floor, instead, resting the back of his head against the wall. "I'm here for the same reason you are."

"But your side won," Klink said. "Why would you be here?"

"Because they think I'm on _your_ side. Collaborating with the enemy isn't the sort of thing that gets overlooked."

"Collaborating? When did you collaborate? When did you even _cooperate?_ You were terrible! You're the worst troublemaker I've ever known," said Klink. "I spent half the war putting you in the cooler. And the other half wondering why I ever bothered letting you _out_ of it."

"Yeah. I noticed."

"Newkirk…" Klink began, and lowered his voice. "This is another one of Colonel Hogan's little plots, isn't it? You're not really in trouble; you're here to help me, aren't you?"

"No, this is nothing to do with the Colonel, and yes, I'm really for it." Newkirk shrugged. "Sayla vee, sayla gayer, as Louie used to put it."

"Yes, but Newkirk… this makes no sense. You were a terrible prisoner. In fact, I wanted to shoot you myself."

"You know, people really don't need to keep _telling_ me that. I'm already quite aware. And don't take this the wrong way, but I seriously doubt that being vouched for by a Kraut is going to convince anyone that I didn't go over to your side. Do me a favor and let me alone."

"But you didn't! What is this 'collaboration' nonsense all abo— ohhhhh," Klink said as he remembered. "Berlin Betty?"

"In the extremely attractive flesh. I can't help you, Klink. Play your cards right, and they might even let you watch my grand finale while you wait for your own turn against the wall, but that's the best I can do."

Klink looked horrified. "Newkirk! Do not even say such a thing!"

"Fine. If it makes you happy, I won't. Can't make any promises for the judge at my court martial, mind. Or yours, come to that."

"But… it won't come to that. It _can't_ come to that. What is Colonel Hogan waiting for? I'm sure he could think of some way to take care of things; he was always planning _something_. He can help us both, can't he?"

Newkirk looked straight ahead. "No. He's gone."

" _Was is los_?"

"I said, he's gone. And a bloody good thing, too. Bad enough if _you're_ there in the peanut gallery while they're tying on my blindfold. Having Hogan there too would be far too much of a good thing."

"But Newkirk…"

"Shut up, Klink. I've wanted to punch you square in the monocle since 1942, and they can only kill me once. So shut your bloody gob before I give myself the satisfaction, all right?"

Klink subsided, and there was silence for an hour or so. At which point, he exploded. "I can't stand it in here. I can scarcely breathe!"

"Count the bricks," Newkirk advised. "It'll calm you down."

"Oh, what would you know about it?" Klink snapped, before he thought.

Newkirk just gave him a Look. "You spent half the war bunging me in here, remember? There's not much I don't know about how to make the time pass in one of these vertical coffins."

"Yes, I did, didn't I?" Klink thought about that. "Would it do any good to say that I'm sorry?"

Newkirk pressed his back a little more firmly against the wall and didn't say anything. "No. But you're not the one with the most to be sorry for," he finally said. It was true. He didn't think he could forgive Klink that easily, and possibly not at all. But there had been… worse Kommandants. "The next time you Krauts start getting itchy feet and decide to invade somewhere, though… don't, all right?"

Klink didn't say anything for a minute. "He's really gone? He really left us here?"

"What 'us'?" Newkirk said. "Klink, I'm not your friend. I'm not your rescuer. I'm not on your side, and I never have been. I'm just the bloke who happens to be sharing your cell for the moment, and even if there _were_ something I could do to save your neck, I probably wouldn't bother. And I doubt the Colonel would feel any different. So shut up!"

Klink shrugged. "No, I'm sure he doesn't care about saving my neck. But doesn't he care about yours?"

Newkirk's voice went subarctic; it was the difference between frustration and fury. "Don't you dare. Just… don't you bloody well _dare_. He's well out of this, and it's going to stay that way. This is my concern; not his, and certainly not yours."

"He doesn't even _know_ about this?" Klink was horrified on two counts, and, to his credit, his own plight—and his quashed hopes that Hogan would be able, one last time, to save him— was no longer at the forefront of his mind. "How do you think he's going to feel when he finds out?"

Newkirk flinched, just the tiniest bit. "With any luck, he won't."

Klink shook his head, but before he could say anything, the door opened. A burly MP was standing there.

"'Colonel' Wilhelm Klink?" he asked, with a hint of a sneer.

"Yes, that's me," Klink said, standing up.

The MP nodded. "Fine. You're free to go."

"Really?" he said, disbelievingly. "I am?"

"We have bigger fish to fry," he said, with some disdain. "In any case, if the reports we received are at all accurate, you're the sort of German officer we _want_ to leave in place."

"Well, I am—"

"Incompetent. Either way, you're not worth the trouble of prosecuting."

"Oh," Klink said, deflating. "I see."

"Glad we had this little chat," he said. "Get moving."

Klink straightened his tunic, and walked out with as much dignity as he could manage, escorted by the MP. He glanced back once, just in time to see the door slam shut with Newkirk still inside, just as it had scores or hundreds of times before. It had never, he thought, sounded as implacably _final_ as it did that day.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Translated from Newkirkese to French to English:

Sayla vee, sayla gayer = C'est la vie, c'est la guerre = That's life, that's war.


	20. Chapter 20

Russian Front, 1943

Lieutenant Albert Strauss had been recalled to Berlin, and there wasn't a soul in the unit who wasn't half dead with envy. But then again, there wasn't a soul in the unit who wasn't half dead, full stop. Lange was no exception.

"How did he manage it?" he asked, mostly rhetorically. "If he had the sort of powerful friends who could arrange a transfer like this, he would never have been sent here in the first place."

A young major who had had a promising future ahead of him before making the mistake of being on the staff of a now-disgraced general answered. "He was one of seven children. Patriots all. Six have died in glorious combat, dulce et decorum est. Bringing him back home will look good on the newsreels."

"I've got two brothers, and if it would get me a ticket out of Russia, I'd kill them myself," said a captain, with a harsh laugh.

Lange snorted. "I was an only child before the war even started. Perhaps I should be sent home, too." As he thought about that, his eyes hardened. "So poor little Strauss has no family left?"

"Doesn't sound like it," shrugged the major. "Of course, if the rest of them were anything like _our_ Strauss, they're no great loss to anyone."

"Agreed," said the captain, and the conversation drifted sideways to dwell lovingly upon each and every flaw in Strauss's character. They didn't even notice that Lange had left until fifteen minutes after he'd gone, at which point they began discussing _his_ shortcomings. So it was a pleasant day for all concerned.

Lieutenant Albert Strauss got on the troop train that afternoon, exactly as scheduled. So he missed the flurry of excitement that evening, when it was discovered that some poor sod had somehow stepped on a landmine sometime that day. They found a few bits of him—a left arm wearing a wristwatch they all recognized as Lange's, part of a torso with colonel's insignia, and such. His comrades, devastated, mourned for nearly thirty seconds before realizing that they were now collectively heir to the nearly full bottle of schnapps he'd kept in his tent. It was fairly good schnapps, and they enjoyed it immensely. Which was probably a better epitaph than he'd deserved.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1946

Stephens leaned forward. "What do you want me to say, Newkirk? That I'm sorry things happened the way they did? I _am_ sorry. I never intended this to happen. You've been through hell, and I can't blame you for being angry about it. But be fair. I'm not entirely to blame, either. I'm not the one who asked you to do that damned broadcast. General Hogan did that."

"Just so," Newkirk said. "The Colonel _asked_ me to do it. Maybe he was wrong to ask it. And maybe I was wrong to agree. But he _asked._ He gave me the choice. And when he found out what had come of it, tell me this—how long did he wait before putting his career and his neck on the line to try making it right? Tell me. Was it five minutes? Ten? I can promise you this much—it wasn't eight bleeding months! And it wasn't because it suddenly struck him that there was a little more he could wring out of me, neither."

Stephens didn't reply.

"Where've you been all this time? Eight months, Stephens. _Eight months._ Where were you when there was even the slightest chance of convincing me that I hadn't been sucked dry and spat out?"

"Nuremberg, for a start," said Stephens, and pulled another, thicker, file folder from his briefcase. He tossed it onto the cot; it landed with a dull thump on top of the envelope of identity papers. "And quite a number of other places, really."

"What's this?"

"It's a very small fraction of the evidence I've spent the last year helping the prosecutors assemble. It's the merest taste of the sort of evil I want you to help me eradicate. This is my purpose in life now, Newkirk. And I want it to be yours, as well."

Newkirk didn't even glance towards it. "I'm not interested. I don't care what you want. I still have the power to say no. I'm saying it."

"Do you have any reason for saying it, or is it _entirely_ a matter of spite?"

"It's one bitter scrap of victory from the jaws of defeat. I have nothing left to lose, which, oddly enough, gives me something of an advantage. You can't force me to help you. And I can't force you to let me at least try to get on with my life. However, I _can_ force you to be rid of me, and this time you don't get to pretend your hands are clean. I can't win this game, but I can make sure you lose it."

"And you don't think that's just a bit childish?"

"Oh, it certainly is. Your point?"

"My point is that _I'm_ not the one you'd be punishing. Hate me if you must, but whatever you decide, do it for the right reasons. As you say; you really _don't_ have anything more to lose, and you'll never know how sorry I am about that. But Newkirk…" Stephens waved towards the door, one sweeping gesture indicating the rest of the world. " _They do._ "

Silence.

"We need your help, Newkirk, before we all end up right back where we started. I'm not asking you to serve a country, or a government. I'm not even really asking you to help me. I'm asking you—I am _begging_ you—to help humanity. To save the people."

"The 'people' would come to my execution with a bag of peanuts and cheer themselves hoarse," Newkirk said. "Why should I care what happens to them?"

"Because this is what you _are_ , Newkirk," said Stephens. "This has _always_ been what you are."

He looked at his hands for a moment. "And what's that, then? The most patriotic traitor in history? A useful tool? Or just a sneak and a liar?"

"Neither. You're a guardian," Stephens said. "A protector. This is what you do; this is what you're meant for, because you don't know how to do anything but put yourself between the innocent and harm. That file folder contains both. Please. Just look at it. If you still want to leave after that, I give you my word of honor that you will never hear from me or any of my colleagues ever again."

Newkirk looked down at the file folder as though he expected it to do something. He flicked it open, skimmed the first couple of pages. "These are bad people," he said meditatively.

"They are," Stephens agreed. This was Newkirk's _real_ pressure point; he was wary enough to refuse carrots and tough enough to shrug off sticks. But show him someone helpless, show him a wrong to right, and you had him. When it came to this sort of psychological trap, Newkirk was good.

Stephens was better.

Newkirk turned another page. This one had photographs. He managed not to flinch, but it took some effort. "…There's a place in hell for manipulative bastards like you," he said after a moment.

"I don't doubt it," Stephens said blandly. "But that's neither here nor there."

There was a long silence. Newkirk flipped through a few more pages, examined a few more photographs. Each was worse than the last.

Then he got to the page with the pictures of children.

Hogan had called for volunteers any number of times. Almost invariably, Newkirk had been the last of the group to agree to whatever reckless, improbable scheme the Colonel had in mind _that_ time, and had proudly cited his own cowardice as the reason for that.

It had been a lie. It had always been a lie, and he'd known it from the start. He hadn't been struggling to say 'yes' against his better judgment; more often than not, he'd been trying to convince himself to heed that better judgment and say 'no.' He'd never quite managed it then, and he wasn't managing it now. He closed the folder, took a deep breath.

"What do you want me to do?"

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1968

London was bedecking itself in holly and tinsel, just like it did every year, and Newkirk was trying to ignore it… just like he did every year. He'd had to walk past two Christmas tree lots just to get to the office, and dodge three separate men dressed like Father Christmas and clanging handbells, and, frankly, it was not making him feel especially jolly.

Kay had beaten him to work that morning, and she looked about the way he felt. She was sitting slumped at her desk, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, staring balefully into the depths.

"Morning, luv," he said. Not 'good' morning, which would have been a lie, but no one could deny that it was, in fact, before noon. It would have to do.

"Morning," she agreed, just as unenthusiastically.

"What's eating you?" he asked, picking up his own mug and filling it.

"Hanukkah," she said grimly.

"What's that when it's at home?"

"Being at home is the whole problem. It's a holiday, and it's a lot like the Spanish Inquisition, except with appetizers. My aunt will have invited everyone she knows, and every unmarried man that everyone she knows can think of, for the dual purposes of celebrating the holiday and seeing how long it takes me to crack."

He couldn't help himself; he laughed. "Kay, I've seen you face down the Stasi, the KGB, and me with a hangover. And I don't think I've ever seen you look as scared as you do this minute."

"Very funny. I can't face spending another holiday sitting next to whoever they've dredged up this time while my aunt gives me meaningful looks. Remember Istanbul? The whole time they were pushing those bamboo shoots under my fingernails, I was thinking, well, things could be worse; I could be making small talk with Myron Goldstein the dentist instead."

"Your sense of proportion never ceases to amaze me."

"You haven't lived through my aunt's attempts at matchmaking. You'd prefer the bamboo shoots, too."

"I'll take your word for it. So what's this holiday all about?"

"It's commemorating an ancient miracle, when an evil king tried to kill all the Jews and didn't manage it."

He frowned. "That's what you said the other holiday was about, the one at Easter time, when you brought in the coconut macaroons. _And_ the one where you brought in those little triangular jam biscuits."

"Spend three thousand years running from one angry mob into the arms of another, and your holidays acquire a certain theme. In a few centuries there will probably be another holiday to celebrate the end of the Holocaust, with a special kind of biscuit all its own, and then they can use _that_ new holiday as an occasion to torment their unmarried female relations."

"Sounds festive. What sort of biscuits might we be talking about?"

"Not a clue. I'll take a poll. There will be about two dozen people at the party, so that will mean about three dozen opinions. It might distract them from my marital prospects."

"You're sure this Myron chap is worse than the bamboo shoots?"

"Quite sure. If you don't believe me, come see for yourself," she said.

He blinked. They had never done the whole 'awkward introductions to the extended family' bit, and it had never occurred to him that they might. But then again, he reasoned, this was nothing they hadn't done before, on any number of deep-cover assignments. She needed backup; that was what partners did. "Sounds charming. I'd love to. When and where?"

Her head jerked up. "What? Penny, I was joking. You don't have to do this."

"No, but helping you dodge all your prospective suitors will be a great deal less trouble then helping you dispose of the bodies of the ones who won't take no for an answer." He grinned at her. "Just tell me what I need to do. I've never celebrated a Jewish holiday before."

"It's a very religious festival. Strict rules. First of all, my aunt will have made more food than you've ever seen in one place, and you will have to eat as much of it as humanly possible. Or perhaps a bit more than that. While drinking whatever my uncle pours into your glass, and there will be a lot of that, too."

"I think I can handle all of that. Is there anything else?"

"Not much. We'll light some candles, sing some songs, there's a gambling game with wooden tops that usually lasts about five minutes, and then we'll all eat a little more food just to make sure that we haven't missed anything. After that, you'll go home to sleep off the aftereffects of too many potato pancakes, and I'll be put under the bright lights and grilled about how serious it is and whether we're going to raise the children Jewish."

The first few sentences had sounded rather nice. The last bit drove the rest of it out of his head. He stared at her midriff in undisguised panic. "… _Children?!_ "

"Hypothetically speaking," she said. "Deep breaths, Penny. It's nice of you to offer, but I told you, you don't want to do this."

"Do you not want me there?"

The tips of her ears got pink. "I didn't say _that_."

"All right, then. When and where?"

*.*.*.*.*.*

Accordingly, three days later, they made their way to Golders Green. She turned to him as they approached the building. "Last chance," she warned, with a wry smile. "There's still time for you to make a break for it. Save yourself while you still can."

Unusually for her, she'd left her hair free and loose; it hung halfway down her back like black silk, in a way he'd rarely seen it. She had an extensive repertoire of knots and braids and coronets, anything to keep it well out of her way while they were working, and even when falling asleep at night, she usually kept it tightly braided in an uncomplicated single fat plait. He'd asked her once if it wouldn't make more sense to keep it short. He never intended to ask her again.

"Never leave a man behind, isn't that what they say? Besides, we're already here. In for a penny, in for a pound."

*.*.*.*.*.*


	21. Chapter 21

London, 1946

" ** _YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?!_**"

The MP jumped. "I thought they were soundproofing those doors."

His partner craned his neck, squinted down the hall. "They did."

" ** _IS THIS SOME KIND OF BLOODY JOKE? HAVE YOU GONE COMPLETELY CRACKERS, OR DO YOU JUST THINK I HAVE?"_**

The first guard lifted an eyebrow, impressed. "Good lung capacity on that one." He listened for another moment. "Quite a vocabulary, too."

"Do you think we should go in there?" asked the second, with no enthusiasm. "It sounds like he might need some help."

" ** _I DON'T GIVE A TOSS WHAT YOU THOUGHT; THINK OF SOMETHING ELSE!"_**

The guard was a seasoned veteran. He had been at Dunkirk, he had been at Normandy Beach; the point being, he was no shirker and no coward. "They don't pay us enough for that," he said, decisively.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1968

"Right, then. We who are about to die salute you," Kay muttered, and rang the doorbell.

It was opened by an older woman, and the broad grin that spread across Kay's face gave the lie to all the wry complaints. "Happy Hanukkah," she managed to get out before being not so much hugged as engulfed.

"Kay, darling! Come in, come in! It's so good to see you," she said, releasing her. "Max! Look who's here."

An older man appeared by the time they'd gotten in the front door and were taking off their coats. "Hi, Uncle Max," she said. "I would like you to meet a friend of mine from work. This is Jack Selden; Jack, these are Max and Ruth Levine." _And please don't kill each other_ , she didn't say aloud.

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," he said. "And thank you for having me here this evening."

"Oh, the pleasure is all ours. Welcome to our home, Mr. Selden," said Ruth, with a gleam of intense interest in her dark eyes. In what had to be the smoothest, most efficient 'divide and conquer' maneuver in recorded history, before Newkirk quite knew what had hit him, Max had swept Kay off towards the kitchen, while Ruth had taken his arm and whisked him straight into the middle of the crowd in the parlor. At which point the tactic became the classic 'hammer and anvil,' trapping him neatly in a pack of honorary aunties, all of whom were very interested to see precisely who and what Kay had brought home with her.

There were far too many names and faces for him to keep straight—the bridge of 'Dear Old Donegal' started running through his head after approximately three minutes or eleven relatives, whichever came first—but he did notice a few things almost immediately. One was that nearly everyone over the age of sixteen had at least a hint of Germany in their voices. Another was that no one seemed to be related to anyone else by blood. It was a family cobbled together from scraps and remnants.

And they were the most frighteningly efficient interrogators he had ever seen. The song in his head switched seamlessly to 'Istanbul, not Constantinople' as he found himself explaining who he was, how he and Kay knew one another, where he was from, a short census of his entire extended family, what he did for a living, where he lived, whether he was now or had ever been married, and pretty much everything else about himself except for his blood type and shoe size. Most of the parts about his job—and Kay's—were entirely fictitious, of course, but they were the old, familiar lies he'd been using for years, and they came more naturally to his tongue than the truth.

Kay was running a similar gauntlet, except that in between questions she was also scurrying back and forth to the kitchen, replenishing the various platters as they emptied. Which they did, quickly and often; he guessed that she was using them as a graceful way to escape any line of questioning that got too uncomfortable.

Three batches of latkes later, he finally caught up with her as she made her way back to the kitchen with an empty tray.

"Bamboo shoots, wasn't it?" he said under his breath.

"Warned you," she said, in the same tones. "How are you holding up?"

"I've been told by eight different people that I'm too skinny and I don't eat enough," he said. "All eight of them emphasized the point by insisting that I take second, third, and, in one case, fourth helpings of various dishes with names I can't pronounce. Five of them went on to tell me that I should get married, because I need someone to take care of me."

"Only five? You're doing well," she said. "I apparently look pale and peaked from working too hard in a stuffy office, and I'm obviously not eating right, either. Oh, and if I don't quit that dreadful job I'm going to ruin my health."

"To be fair, that's entirely possible," Newkirk murmured. "Does the word 'Helsinki' ring any bells?"

"Oh, come on. What choice did I have? He would never have touched that coffee if I didn't have some first. He was much too careful, and already horribly suspicious. He would've assumed it was poisoned."

"Possibly because it _was_."

"Pfft. That's what antidotes are for." She grinned at him. "This really is above and beyond the call, Penny, and I'm grateful."

"I'm having a good time," he said. "Your relations are all lovely, and the food is top-notch. Whatever it is."

"Tell Aunt Ruth that; she'll be very happy to hear it. I hope you saved room for dinner, though. You don't want to miss the brisket."

"Wait, there's _more_ food coming?"

She snickered. "Several courses. Loosen your belt, commend your soul to God, and hope for the best."

"Which would have been nice to know _before_ that fourth helping," he mock-grumbled as she hurried away, still giggling.

*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1946

"Where the hell is he, Stephens?"

Hogan had spent the last two days in a state teetering between panic and fury. He had no cards left to play. No one seemed to know or care what had become of Newkirk— if they did know, they weren't telling _him_ —and the meetings he'd been asked to attend were officially over. It had been made very clear to him that quite a few high officials were eagerly looking forward to his departure; he was out of time and out of options, and if he was, Newkirk probably was, too. Stephens, despite a working relationship that had lasted nearly three years, was a man about whom Hogan still knew almost nothing… except that Stephens always seemed to know everything. Stephens was his last, forlorn hope, and Hogan was past tact.

"Good afternoon, General Hogan," Stephens said mildly, and glanced at his watch. "Let me see. Two o'clock. Hmm. By now, he's probably trying to claim that he was nowhere near the Fox and Grapes, and that he had nothing to do with the incident."

"What incident?"

"Oh, nothing important. Last night, a bit of a pub brawl turned into a small-scale riot when the bartender discovered that the cash box had gone missing during the fracas."

"Last night? Last night he was already in jail."

"Ah, but, you see, he wasn't. Not officially. There are no records of him being in custody, which means that he has no alibi."

"He wasn't there! How did he get caught up in any of this?"

"How? We found three very disreputable chaps who were more than happy to perjure themselves, that's how. They're probably singing like the proverbial canary even as we speak. And the judge lost a son at Dunkirk, and a daughter in the Blitz; he isn't going to ask too many questions, not for the sake of a Nazi propagandist. The book is already as good as thrown."

"Stephens… what are you saying?"

"That it's over. You can stop harassing your superiors; there's no longer any point," Stephens said calmly. "He'll get six months. With good behavior, he'll be out in three."

Hogan shook his head, stunned. "Why, Stephens? Why are you doing this? This is insane!"

"Because I happen to want him incarcerated at this particular time. That's all. Given a bit more time, perhaps I could have come up with something more convincing than a pub brawl gone bad, but you didn't leave me much of an alternative. You've been staging a one-man Normandy Invasion on his behalf, and I had to stop it while I could."

"So he was right. You set up your little kangaroo court… because of _me_. Because I was trying to get him the hell out of here," Hogan said. His eyes narrowed. "Because breaking people out of the pen is so far out of my wheelhouse that you thought this would stop me? Or were you just looking for a reason to grab me, too?"

"I wish I could. If I could have gotten your entire team, I would have. It's such a pity you're a Yank."

"Tell me about it. Having rights is an awful inconvenience. Jesus Christ, Stephens… I thought you were one of the good guys. Why would you do this to him? _Again?_ "

"Because it was necessary. For the greater good of a great many people, he needs to spend the next few months in prison."

" _What_ greater good? What are you talking about?"

"The bigger picture," Stephens said. "Think about it, Hogan. He's a no-hoper from the slums who was put on trial for his life for the high crime of having been forced to read a German propaganda statement after more than four years in captivity. A few weeks after the judge regretfully admitted that the court couldn't quite twist the law enough to justify committing a judicial murder and grudgingly released him, he was picked up on a completely ridiculous charge and sent right back to the penitentiary, with nothing to look forward to except the grim certainty that he'll _keep_ being sent there until someone trumps up a semi-plausible excuse to hang him… and that it won't take long. By this point, he must hate this country and everyone in it with a blazing fury, wouldn't you say?"

"I think I already do, and yeah, he probably should. He _doesn't_ , but he should."

"Quite. And that is precisely what we are hoping his cellmate thinks."

"His cellmate? And just who is that?"

"He goes by the name 'Albert Greenaway.' Presumably, that's an alias, but we don't know his real name yet. He's almost certainly a Nazi deep-cover agent, and he was arrested last week."

"Well, bully for you. So charge _him_ with espionage."

"If we do, we'll lose the rest of his network. If, however, we can infiltrate that little vipers' nest while he's serving a brief sentence for some innocuous crime, we might be able to get them all. But in order to do that, we would need a very particular sort of person to gain Greenaway's trust. Like, say, an infamous Nazi collaborator who got off on a technicality."

With a soundless crash, the world rearranged itself, and all the pieces slotted neatly into their new configurations. Hogan was no stranger to this sort of manipulative plan, but usually he was the one on the other end of the con job. He found that he didn't much care for the view on this side. "Newkirk."

"Yes."

"My God. How much of this did you set up?"

"Not nearly as much as you probably think. Some improvisation was, sadly, necessary."

"So wrecking his life was part of some master plan? He _agreed_ to this?"

"Eventually. It took some… spirited debate, but he works for me now." Stephens saw the expression on Hogan's face, and his voice softened. "It's not what you're thinking, Hogan. He wasn't hiding anything from you. When you spoke with him, he genuinely had no idea about any of this, or that we were planning on bringing him back into the service."

"That's pretty damned fast. It's only been a couple of days, and he was locked up for most of them."

"Yes, well… we had to adjust our timing a bit after you got involved."

"Baloney. I _wasn't_ involved until this week. He was in jail the day after Germany surrendered."

"That was one of the parts that needed some improvisation."

"None of that improvisation seems to have been for _his_ benefit. If, as you say, this Greenaway thing wasn't something you'd planned from the start, why in hell didn't anyone do something to help him when it all went down? Half the high command knew that those charges were nonsense."

"Oh, more than half. And as it happens… there was one officer who really did try his best. Testified at length and in excruciating detail. And I do mean excruciating."

Hogan ran through a mental list. "Well, that's something. Roberts, right? He knew better than anyone the sort of work we were doing."

"Not even close. He might have actually been helpful. No, it was another of your old chums. I'll give you a hint. It was the one you were always happiest to see leave."

Hogan closed his eyes. "Please tell me it wasn't Crittendon."

"Exactly what _I_ said when I heard."

"Oh, God. How bad was it?"

"Well, he started off with their first meeting, when Newkirk refused to leave Germany, collapsed their half-dug escape tunnel, sabotaged the fence wire they were cutting, and got Crittendon recaptured. After that it got a bit less heartwarming."

Hogan face-palmed. "Sounds like his work, all right."

"With friends like him, one hardly needs enemies," he agreed. "If it's any comfort, he blamed some of the trouble on you. Said that firmer discipline on your part might've kept Newkirk from going to the bad."

"Unbelievable," Hogan muttered. "Just unbelievable."

"I know. By the time he was done helping, it was essentially a question of whether it made more sense to have the hanging on the spot or if they should wait until they could arrange for drawing and quartering as well. If the light fixtures in that courtroom had been a bit sturdier, I really don't know what might have happened."

"I don't think that's funny."

"Good. I wasn't joking. It was touch and go for a while there."

"This isn't fair," Hogan said inanely.

"Nothing about this damned war has been fair. Nothing about this hopeless world of ours is fair. I'm doing what I can to fix things, but I'm not God," Stephens snapped. "Go home, General Hogan. There's nothing more for you to do here."

"Oh, yes there is. I want to hear this from _him_. I left him high and dry once, and I'll be damned if I do it again," Hogan said. He meant that quite literally, too. "You're going to bring me to wherever you're holding him, you're going to give us a chance to talk in private, and let me tell you, if I don't like what I hear, I _will_ stage that one-man invasion."

Stephens, unfazed, didn't even blink. "No," he said. "No, General, I'm _not_ going to do that. First of all, I don't take orders from you, and even if I did, there is far too much at stake. I am not going to risk losing an entire network of fifth columnists, or, for that matter, risk compromising my agent's cover, thereby putting him in even more danger than he already is, simply to salve your conscience. No."

"But…" Hogan said, and then stopped, because he had no idea what he wanted to say next.

"Go home, General," Stephens repeated, more gently this time. "Stand down. You're not his handler anymore; I am. I'm giving him what he needs. He'll be fine."

"And just what is it you think he needs?" Hogan asked. "Besides 'more jail time,' of course."

"Exactly what you gave him. A purpose," Stephens said. "And a team."

"You really don't get it, do you?" Hogan said. "We didn't have a 'team' back in Stalag 13. We wouldn't have survived if that was all we had."

"What, then?"

" _Brothers_ , you jackass. We were a family."

"I know," said Stephens, heavily. He reached into an inside pocket and extracted a letter. "I know. Perhaps someday. Here. He insisted." He cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, and turned to go. "When his mission is over, I'm sure he'll be in touch. And not before. Good day, General Hogan."

Hogan, silenced, watched him leave. He looked at the envelope in his hand, tore it open.

 _Colonel—_

 _Sorry for leaving so abruptly, but times being what they are, when someone offers you a position, you'd best take it before they change their mind. My nan used to say that the reward for a job well done was usually a harder one; we'll have to see if she was right. I'm sure our mutual friend gave you the broad outlines, so you'll understand if I'm not much of a correspondent for a little while, but I'll write when I can._

 _Thanks for everything, Colonel. I heard a little about what you were trying to do for me, and it means a lot. I doubt I'll be making it to the Colonies anytime soon, but otherwise, things are probably going to be all right now._

 _Yours truly, Peter Newkirk, Esquire_

 _PS: Did you really threaten to punch a certain field marshal in the throat, or was Stephens just having a go at me? From what I've heard, none of his men would have tried too hard to stop you if you did. –PN,E_

Hogan stared at the note for a while, the words blurring a bit. Trust Newkirk to end with a joke. He put it neatly back into the envelope and tucked it into his pocket, his mind racing in a hundred different directions at once.

 _If the light fixtures in that room had been a bit sturdier, I really don't know what might have happened._

 _If this is the part they need me to play, then that's who I'll be._

 _Wars demand a few sacrifices—and if you think the wars are over simply because the guns are silent, you're a fool._

 _You can stop harassing your superiors; there's no longer any point._

 _There are only two things you can do with a man like that; shoot him or promote him._

 _You're not his handler anymore; I am._

 _The reward for a job well done is usually a harder one._

 _The greater good of a great many people._

 _Things are probably going to be all right now._

There wasn't much left to do, was there? Except hope that Newkirk was right, hope that he'd be all right. He let out a deep breath, and slowly started back towards his borrowed quarters. No, there wasn't much left to do at all. Except finish packing… and go home. And try to live with himself.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, who became the Chief of the Imperial General Staff in 1946, apparently had no gift for tact or diplomacy. That said, no, Hogan didn't actually threaten anything of the sort.

'Dear Old Donegal' is a WWII-era pseudo-Irish patter song sung by Bing Crosby. The bridge is just a long, rhyming list of Irish surnames, as the singer is introduced to half the town. Allen Sherman did a parody version of it in 1963, called 'Shake Hands with your Uncle Max,' with the same joke, except, of course, all the names are Jewish. (I couldn't resist including an actual Uncle Max.) And 'Istanbul' is better known these days in They Might Be Giants' cover version, but it's from 1953 and sung- more slowly- by The Four Lads.


	22. Chapter 22

London, 1968

Dinner was, to put it mildly, impressive. Food is always important to people who know what real hunger is like, and many— most— of the dinner guests did. Himself included. His pre-dinner four helpings of latkes notwithstanding, he did full justice to the meal, which was not only pleasant but politic. The way to a man's heart might, as the old saying had it, be through his stomach, but he'd learned a long time ago that the way to a chef's heart was via a well-cleaned plate.

It turned out that the infamous Myron Goldstein actually was at the party, too, although he'd taken one look at Newkirk, smiled broadly as he introduced himself, and, with the air of a man reprieved at the block, had promptly taken a seat as far away from Kay as the table permitted. Nice enough, in a way, but if he'd ever said anything interesting in his life it had probably been by mistake, Newkirk thought. How anyone could have taken one look at him and thought he was good enough for Kay was mind-boggling.

His sharp ears caught a number of remarks he had decidedly not been meant to hear. They were all in German, and he'd made something of a point, when asked, of disavowing any knowledge of the language. ("Oh, I was over there during the war, right enough, but I'm afraid I never got much past 'Goot un-nobbin, fraw-line. Ayin beer, biddy,' and that sort of thing.") The less people thought you knew, the more you usually learned.

That evening, for example, he learned that, even if he was a goy, well, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, because he seemed nice enough, with very good manners, and not so bad looking, either, except that he was far too old for their Kaysele, but then again she wasn't a spring chicken anymore, any port in a storm, after all, and it was more than time that she settled down.

He dragged his attention back to the English portion of the conversation when the old ladies started debating names for the first four or five children, because he wasn't sure if he could keep eavesdropping without either starting to laugh or crawling under the table in mortification. That was the problem with gathering information. Sometimes you ended up learning more than you wanted to know.

He glanced over at Kay, who was, at that moment, mopping up a minor flood of applesauce courtesy of a toddler—either Mrs. Steiner's neighbor's niece's, or her niece's neighbor's, he couldn't remember exactly which—and just for a moment, he found himself imagining her tending instead to a little girl with glossy dark plaits and bright green eyes that would never, ever have the shadow that never quite left Kay's. Or, he more than suspected, his own.

Dragging himself back to reality, he stuffed another bite of brisket into his mouth before he could say anything foolish. Where in hell had _that_ thought come from?

But all good things must come to an end, and that includes holiday gatherings. Eventually, the last cups of coffee were drained, the candles had guttered, small children were discovered fast asleep on, in, or under various pieces of furniture, and everyone began conceding that it was time to go home. Slowly, the guests trickled out in ones and twos. As she closed the door behind the last of them, Kay stifled what was either a yawn or a relieved sigh behind her hand. "All right, then," she said. "Just a few thousand dishes to wash, and then I'd better get back home; it's late. Jack, if you don't mind waiting a bit longer, we can split a cab?"

"Sure. But if you'll show me where things go, I'll give you a hand with the washing up," Newkirk offered. "I did my share of KP duty back in the day, after all; my CO insisted on it. Frequently."

"Why does that not surprise me in the least?" she asked, with a mischievous glitter in her eye. She knew all about his CO, after all.

"I'm sure I don't know," he said loftily. "But anyhow, dirty dishes are well within my grasp. That and peeling potatoes."

"No, no," said Ruth. "I won't hear of it. Don't trouble yourself, either of you; they can wait for the morning. But Kay, dear, before you go, I made up a plate for Mrs. Solomon next door, and I want you to run it over to her. She wasn't feeling well enough to come, poor thing, and I know she wanted to wish you a happy holiday."

Kay hesitated. "It's awfully late," she hedged. "She's probably sleeping. There's another seven days of Hanukkah; I can come back and see her on one of the others."

"Nonsense," said Ruth, firmly. Somehow she was already wearing a coat, and she handed Kay her own. "She's always been a night owl. And she's always so glad to see you; she asks about you all the time. Mr. Selden, you just sit right back down and be comfortable. We won't be too long."

Kay, who was being summarily steered towards the door, plate in hand, flicked an apologetic glance at Newkirk; he fielded it with a faint grin. Every last one of them, quite possibly including poor unwell Mrs. Solomon from next door, knew that this was a transparent excuse to get her out of the room while the prosecution built its case, and everyone knew that everyone knew it, and everyone, furthermore, knew that there was no possible protest that either he or Kay could make that wouldn't sound more damning than anything he might actually say under questioning.

Well, no one could say that she hadn't warned him, or that he hadn't known what he was signing up for; unless and until they brought out the thumbscrews, he was pretty sure he could handle it. Ruth, triumphant, hustled Kay out of the house; the door clicked quietly shut behind them.

He looked at her uncle. Her uncle looked at him.

"…Do you really want to have the 'young man, what are your intentions' conversation?" asked Max, after a long moment.

"Not especially," Newkirk said honestly.

"Oh, good," said Max. "Neither do I. Let's pretend we've already had it and skip all that nonsense."

Newkirk grinned. "Sounds like a good plan," he said, and settled himself a bit more comfortably in his chair.

"That's what I thought. Refill?"

"No, thanks."

"Well, don't mind if I do," said Max, and splashed a bit more into his glass. He swirled it around, watching the amber liquid as if he expected it to hold answers. "So. What was it you said you do, again?"

"Records department. Steadiest job on earth. That's one thing about a government job; there's always a lot of paper kicking about, and it all needs to be kept safe in case they ever want it again."

"I see," said Max, ironically. "So that's how you met Kay, then? Did that stupid fool she works for need something from the archives? It all sounds just fascinating."

"I detect a faint note of disapproval," Newkirk said. "Slightly insulting to her co-workers, but none of my business either way. If you're not happy with her career choices, then that's between her and you. Why are you dragging me into it?"

"Because you're already in it up to your ears," Max snapped. There was silence for some considerable time.

"Hitler, may his name and memory be erased, tried to make her into a ghost. He nearly succeeded," Max continued. "The camps tried to make her into an animal. They came even closer. Ruthie and I, we tried to make her human again, but then she fell in with your organization, and I've never been able to figure out how or why it became the center of her world. But it did. You, dear fellow, are the first colleague she's ever brought home, so you must be important to her. My question is this. What is it you're trying to make her into?"

"I'm not trying to make her into anything. She's her own person," Newkirk said. A split second later, his stomach plummeting into his shoes, he remembered Stephens' original introduction.

 _I'm trusting you to make her into the sort of agent I think she could be. It's not a small task._

"Judging from the look on your face, you've just realized that you're lying," Max said calmly. "So let's try it again, shall we? What is it you want from her?"

"Nothing you'd object to. We're friends. And I thought we were skipping this conversation."

"We did. You're both adults and these are modern times; so long as she's happy, I'm not asking for details and I don't care to hear them. I'm asking you what you want her to _be_."

"Anything she bloody well wants," he said. Because that was true, wasn't it? She'd _wanted_ to be an agent, and had been one since long before they'd met; all he had ever done was help her fine-tune her abilities a bit. Surely that didn't put him on a level with Hitler, did it? "I don't make her choices for her; hell, I couldn't if I wanted to. Stubborn as the day is long, that one."

"Are you sure about that?" Max looked guardedly hopeful for the first time. "Look. A lot of this goes back to the war. She'll never understand why she made it when so many others didn't, and I think she's still trying to prove to herself that she was worth saving."

Newkirk managed not to wince. "That's not my fault."

"I didn't say it was. But she's trying to prove it to you, too. And Ruthie and I, and everyone else. And she'll go to any lengths." Max looked away. " _Any_ lengths."

"Is she even really your niece?"

Max gave him a level look. "She is now." He sighed. "It's possible, at any rate. I never met my brother-in-law, and neither of us ever met his wife. We know they had a daughter in '33. We know where and when he and his wife were murdered. And that's all we know. No word on what happened to their little girl, and too many of the camp records were destroyed in the last days of the war for any certainty."

"So you just picked an orphan at random?"

"Not quite. We're fairly sure she's ours. Friemann is a common name, but she's about the right age and Ruthie swears there's some family resemblance. It doesn't matter. Just… be careful with her. That's all I'm asking. Please. She's all we've got."

"I am," Newkirk said, because what else _could_ he say?

At that interesting juncture, the door opened again, and Ruth and Kay walked back in. "The cookies have been delivered," she announced, and walked over to join the men. "They won't last the night, but they've been delivered. And speaking of not lasting the night, I'm about to fall asleep on my feet. Are you finished terrorizing poor Jack?"

Max snorted. "This one? He's not afraid of God or the devil, let alone an old man. Give me a kiss goodnight and then get out of here, you disrespectful thing, you."

She laughed, and did both of those things. There was the usual flurry of goodbyes, and fussing, and hugs, and then a few more goodbyes, but eventually she and Newkirk found themselves safe in a taxi.

"I'm sorry about that," she said. "I really expected them to go after _me_ , not you."

"No, not at all," Newkirk said. "He was a gent. I liked him. And your aunt, too, and all their friends. Nice people. I'm guessing most of them came here after the war?"

"Right before or right afterwards," she confirmed, and nervously raked her fingers through her hair. "Nowhere else to go, mostly, and no one else to go to."

"Yeah, I got that impression," Newkirk said. "Rebuilding a community from the ground up isn't an easy task. I take my hat off to them, and no mistake."

"They had no choice in the matter. After the war, well… my aunt and uncle went searching for survivors. They were both from big families—we're talking about parents and siblings and cousins by the score. And that's before you start counting their friends. Neighbors. Everyone they'd ever known." She looked away. "They found me. _Just_ me."

"They were lucky."

"In a way. Everyone you met tonight, they were all frantically searching, too, and a lot of them didn't find anyone at all. One is better than nothing, I suppose, but it's still not…" She didn't finish the sentence, just turned a hand palm-up helplessly. "In a lot of ways, I kind of stand in for all of the people they didn't find."

"So, as far as they're all concerned, you're everyone's daughter or sister or niece or what-have-you?" He nodded, mentally replaying a few of the conversations he'd overheard that night. "That's rather nice."

"Yes and no. It's… not always easy when everyone you meet is looking at you, and you know that they're each seeing who they wish you were."

"Or who they want you to be," he finished, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Who they _need_ you to be," she said quietly. Then, like flipping a switch, she snapped back into the cheerful demeanor she'd been using all night. It didn't make him feel any better. "Still, it's not all bad. Useful skill to have in my line of work, wouldn't you say?"

"There are worse," he agreed, as the cab came to a stop outside her building.

"Want to come in?" she asked, opening the door.

"…Not tonight," he said. "Thanks, luv, but, like you said, I think I need to go sleep off those potato pancakes."

She grinned. "Fair enough. And Jack—thanks again for the backup. You're a lifesaver." With a quick, undemanding peck on the cheek, she was gone.

After a long moment, the cabbie said, "…Well?"

"Well what?" he asked.

"Where to, mate? I'm not sitting here all night while you stare at your girl's front door. Give me an address or get out."

"Oh. Right. Sorry, chum," he said, and reeled off his own address.

"Got it," said the cabbie, and expertly merged back into traffic. He didn't say anything else until they were back in front of Newkirk's building. As he paid the fare, the cabbie said, "Damned if I can figure out why you'd want to come here, is all."

"I _live_ here," Newkirk pointed out.

"Sure," said the cabbie, and stuffed the money in his pocket. "But if you go about turning down better offers, you've only yourself to blame when they stop coming."


	23. Chapter 23

Prague, 1964

It _was_ his first time doing this, but that was no excuse, he thought savagely. It was no excuse at all.

He replayed it one more time in his mind. He'd made contact, he'd made the deal, he'd done _everything_ right, and today, he'd picked up the information from the dead drop. It was time to go home. Success across the boards, until he happened to walk past a certain sidewalk café and everything went to hell. Not necessarily in that order.

The red-haired woman looked up from her crossword puzzle with an expression of utter boredom. Tossing a few bills on the table, she stood up, abandoned her half-finished coffee, and sashayed down the sidewalk after him. She caught up with him at the crosswalk, and put a manicured hand on his arm.

He stopped, turned towards the woman. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a couture handbag, fashionable enough to disguise the fact that it was comparatively large, with room for any number of the sort of objects one wouldn't usually expect to find in a lady's handbag.

"I beg your pardon," she said in Czech, smiling sweetly. "But I seem to have mislaid my lighter. If I could impose…?"

"Er… of course," he said uncomfortably, in the same language, and fumbled in his pocket. This hadn't been part of the plan. "Just a moment."

"Take your time," she said, with a wink. "It's too nice a day to be in a hurry, don't you think?" Playfully, intimately, she put a cigarette between her lips and leaned in as if for a kiss.

He managed a smile, and found the lighter. As he leaned over to light the cigarette, Kay murmured in English, "You've picked up a tail."

He kept his expression casual; it wasn't easy. "Who?"

"The blond in the clichéd trench coat. Don't look."

"What now?" he muttered back.

"We run like hell," she murmured, taking his arm with a flirtatious look from under her lashes. "Can't go back to the safehouse; they're probably already there. Do you have it?"

"Yes," he said. "It's secure."

"Good. What's in that briefcase?"

"Nothing relevant. Just for show," he said under his breath.

"Perfect," she said. "Go straight to the extraction point. If I'm not there in two hours, leave without me, do you understand?"

"What are you—"

"Two hours," she repeated. Smooth as silk, she took the case from his hand, waggled her other hand with a come-up-and-see-me-sometime wink, and set off in a different direction. Numb with disbelief, he saw a tow-haired man in a trench coat hesitate, then casually walk after her.

It had all happened so quickly that for a second he just stood there, shocked, but training won out; he looked at his watch, then, like a man who'd just remembered an appointment, he turned and began walking to their designated extraction point, his mind a blur.

That had been one hour and forty-three minutes ago, and Moore still couldn't believe how quickly everything had gone wrong.

They had only met two months ago, when Stephens had ushered him into the office to meet his new teammates. He wasn't quite sure what he'd expected, but it certainly hadn't been a small knot of men playing darts at ten o'clock in the morning, or a woman standing on a desk next to the board with a small sheaf of scrap paper in her hand. She was dropping the sheets past the board, like makeshift clay pigeons. They'd apparently been at it for some time; discarded pages were lying all over the floor.

One of the men, with a shock of the reddest hair that ever came out of Ireland, flung a dart that just barely pierced the paper, pinning it to the board by one corner for a split second before it tore and the page fluttered to the ground with the rest.

"Pitiful. Just pitiful," said one of the other men, with a decided London accent and a mock-reproving head shake. "Her Majesty should ask for her money back."

The woman laughed. "I'll say. Donnelly, unless we can somehow convince all the bad guys to stand very, very still, I am hereby going on record as saying that I officially _never_ want you backing me up, all right? If I had to depend on you in the field, I'd end up looking like a colander."

"Yes, one way or the other, I rather think you would," Donnelly said, with the air of a man considering all his possibilities. "But don't make promises you don't intend to keep."

The Londoner noticed Moore, and walked over to him. "Allo, who's this, then? New blood?"

"Yes," Stephens said. "Everyone, this is Agent Julian Moore. Do try to pretend you're civilized human beings until he's settled in a bit."

"Where's the fun in that?" asked the Londoner with a wink. "Welcome to our happy little family, Moore. I'm Jack Selden, and we're not nearly as bad as Stephens is making us out to be."

"We're not?" Donnelly said, mock-surprised.

"Well. _Most_ of us aren't that bad," Selden corrected himself. "And we can always count on Donnelly, there, to make the rest of us look good by comparison."

"Good to know," Moore said, a bit nonplussed. "Do you… _often_ stand about playing darts instead of working?"

"Given the choice, wouldn't you?" Selden asked. "Come on, Moore. Show us what you've got. The work will still be there when the game's done, I can almost promise you that."

Moore, who knew a hazing ritual when he thought he saw one, took the darts and walked to the throwing line. The woman, still standing on the desk, held up a sheet of paper, and grinned at him. "Hi, I'm Kay. I'll drop it on three, all right?"

"Fine," he said brusquely.

"Right. One… two…" she counted.

He threw the dart, pinned the paper neatly to the wall, some eighteen inches above the board, before she could finish the countdown. "You said you'd count to three," he said. "I never said anything about waiting until you did."

There was a heartbeat of utter silence, then the other agents started laughing. Selden clapped Moore on the shoulder, with a 'well done' gleam in his eye, and Moore let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He had, it seemed, passed the test, if test it was.

"All right, Stephens," Kay said, hopping nimbly down from the desk. " _This_ one I'd trust as my backup anytime you like."

Famous last words, he thought bitterly. A mere few months later, here he sat, counting down the last few minutes before he had to cut and run, leaving her behind. Some backup! Moore sat on the uncomfortable chair and watched his hands shaking. One hour and forty-nine minutes.

Selden was one thing; his somewhat acerbic sense of humor and his outsized confidence made sense to Moore. He liked the Londoner. Kay, on the other hand, made him very uncomfortable. Her… well, call it a 'specialized skillset' unnerved—and, yes, revolted—him, that was a big part of the problem, and he simply could not get a handle on her admittedly convoluted personality. He wasn't sure he wanted to. In short, he would have vastly preferred to be partnered with one of the other agents. _Any_ of the other agents. Or solo; he didn't mind that either. He had told Stephens as much. Twice. Stephens had been entirely unmoved. Both times.

God, what was he going to tell Stephens? And the others? 'Sorry, chaps; turns out I didn't know what I was doing, after all, and she went and got herself captured so that I could get away. What's new with you?' Stupid, stupid, _stupid…_

One hour and fifty-two minutes.

This time he'd wait out every possible second, he promised himself, promised her. He would. He had to. No jumping the gun to show how clever he was. Not this time.

One hour and fifty-three minutes.

I'm sorry, Friemann. I'm sorry, and I'm grateful, and I hope you went quickly.

One hour and fifty-seven minutes.

"Oh, good. There you are," came a voice. "Ready to go?"

"Friemann?" he asked, incredulous. "You're alive? You're _here_?"

She frowned, taking off a pair of owlish spectacles and stowing them in her handbag. "So it would seem. I can't quite tell if you're surprised or horrified." The red wig with the saucy flip had been discarded in a convenient trash can, and she'd turned her tan coat inside out, showing the blue lining. For a disguise that had probably taken all of five seconds to assume, it was shockingly effective.

"How did you… but what about the tail? Is he still following us?"

"No. Don't worry about him. I handled it."

"You… handled it." He swallowed. "Oh, God. You killed him. Didn't you."

"Of course not," she said; this time _she_ sounded either horrified or shocked. "No need. God, Moore—are you somehow under the impression that it's something I _enjoy_ doing?"

"No," he lied, embarrassed. "But then… how did you get away from him?"

"Easy. I gave him what he wanted, and then I gave him the slip," she said, turning her coat right side out. "He had a choice between combing the streets for me and recovering the intel, and potentially the traitor, too. He picked Door Number Two, so here I am."

"You _gave_ him the… Wait, you didn't have it to give!"

"Well, _he_ didn't know that. I improvised. I was pretending to do a puzzle before you showed up, remember? I'd filled in seven very wrong answers, underlined a few random words in the clues, circled the number 11, and I wish I could be a fly on the wall while their cryptographers drive themselves mad trying to break the code. Shall we get on with fleeing the country now?"

"It could have easily gone the other way," he said with a grimace. "You saved my life."

"Eh, that's the job." She shrugged. "And, obviously, if only one of us got away, I had to make _damned_ sure it was you."

"What? Why me?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Why you? Because I don't know your contact, I don't know your drop locations, I don't know the code you're using, I don't know what sort of information is being passed, and there's a _reason_ I wasn't told any of those things. I'm your _backup_ , Moore. My entire role in this particular mission is keeping you safe. That's 'why you.' Catching me wouldn't have done them any good."

"It wouldn't have done _you_ much good, either." He managed to catch himself before going into details. She had more experience with the details than he did. Sometimes electrodes were involved.

"I know," she said softly. A wisp of hair had come loose from being confined under the wig; she smoothed it back into place before continuing, in something much closer to her usual tones. "But that's what deltas are for. Look at it this way, Moore. Next time it can be _your_ turn to heroically almost lay down your life. Sound fair to you?"

He stared at her for a moment. "You're insane. You do realize that, don't you?"

"It's more or less a job requirement. And may I point out that you work here, too?" She grinned at him. "Now that we've settled that, what would you say to a spot of, say, fleeing for our lives? Shall we?"

"Let's," he replied automatically. That was the last thing he said until they were nearly at the border; he had a fair amount to think about. He glanced over at her. "Friemann?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you," he said simply. He still found her a bit unnerving. He still didn't think he had completely figured her out, (he hadn't,) and he still considered assassination morally unjustifiable. But he thought he understood, now, why Stephens had insisted on her presence. Understood… and agreed.

She smiled at him. "Any time."

*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

Kay went back upstairs. The forensics team was still examining every inch of the office, not to mention every inch of Moore, apparently trying to decide if a bullet to the brain might possibly have been the cause of death. From the doorway she could see a conference room where the rest of her team was already sitting, all of them trying to look as though they weren't falling apart.

She ticked off the names and faces in her mind. Penny. Moore. Stephens. Donnelly. Griffith. Stuart. Brewer. And herself. Ten people had known about Newkirk's mission. Two of them were now dead. Two of them— Stephens' immediate superior and C—were probably above suspicion, and if they weren't then there were certainly larger problems afoot than the loss of a single agent. That left six possibilities, and the other five were in that room.

There was no going back after something like this. They weren't a team anymore; now they were nothing more than six suspects sitting in a room avoiding one another's eyes.

And two of them were dead.

Oh, God… two of them were _dead._

There had been, before that morning, the remote chance that Moore had been right about there not being a leak, and the whole miserable affair being a combination of bad luck and the inevitability of fate. If that were true, he would have still been alive. He had not committed suicide. She knew that for a fact. And she doubted very much that anyone else was going to buy it, either.

If there had been a murder, that argued rather strongly for the existence of a murderer, and assuming that the murderer was also the traitor was the only thing that made any sense.

The people she had worked with, fought with, laughed with, bled with. Her partners, her brothers, her world. Two were her superiors. Five were suspects. Two were dead.

One was a traitor.

This couldn't go on much longer. This was now far bigger than one mission scuttled or one man betrayed; the entire weight of British Intelligence was about to descend on them.

Moore had been wrong about the existence of a traitor. She only hoped that he was also wrong about who was going to be the likeliest suspect.

She still thought Hogan and his crew were her best chance at unraveling the puzzle before anyone else got hurt; there was no one else she could trust at the moment. Running made you look guilty, but if Moore was right, staying wouldn't make her look much less suspicious.

She turned on her heel, and slipped out of the office, hoping she'd managed it before anyone noticed she was there.

*.*.*.*.*

Donnelly bit his lip hard, and drummed his fingers against his knee.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Brewer, who happened to be sitting next to him.

"It's probably nothing," Donnelly said.

"What is?"

"I… Well, the truth of it is that I heard Kay and Moore arguing yesterday. I didn't catch all of it, and I don't want to make any accusations," Donnelly said. "But it's been worrying me a bit."

Brewer frowned. "What did they say?"

"Well, something about General Hogan, first. I thought I heard him tell her to stop, that whatever she was doing was going to destroy the whole team. Oh, and before that, she said something about how he should remember that she's a trained killer. Like she was warning him off. Then he said that whatever she was playing at, he was going to try to save the rest of us."

Brewer swallowed. "That doesn't sound good," he said simply.

"No," said Donnelly. "It doesn't."

There was silence for a moment. Then Donnelly cleared his throat. "And there's the matter of that codebook, too."

"I didn't get a very close look at it," Brewer said. "What about it?"

"It's pathetic," Donnelly said. "This is _Moore_ we're talking about. He used better ciphers than that in his Christmas cards."

He did, too. Moore had been one of the best cryptographers in the agency; it had been the original reason Stephens had wanted him on the team. Just for fun, each year, he devised a new code and sent Christmas cards inscribed with secret messages to his colleagues. The first to decipher the message got a prize. The last to crack the code got to buy the first round of drinks for the more talented members of the team. That had been Kay. Two years running.

"He would never have done a more professional job on a holiday game than he would on a matter of life and death. It just wasn't in his nature," Donnelly concluded. "If he had anything to do with that codebook, I'll eat my boots without salt."

Brewer took a deep breath. "Have you told the old man about any of this?"

"No," said Donnelly. "Not yet."

"You know you have to," Brewer said softly.

Donnelly set his jaw. There was no more uncertainty in his face or his voice. "Yes," he said. "I know exactly what I have to do."

He stood up and walked to where Stephens was sitting. He murmured something in a low voice that no one else could hear. Stephens, stone-faced, stood up as well, and the two of them left the room.


	24. Chapter 24

Stalag 13, 1941

The first blow hurt more than anything he'd ever experienced or imagined. Nothing could possibly have been worse than that.

Until the second one fell, and gave him something to compare it to. And the third.

But after a while—a few minutes, a few millennia, something like that—he almost stopped noticing the pain, because the world was no longer anything _but_ pain. He forgot to hope for the whipping to end, forgot that it _could_ end, forgot that there had ever been a time before it had started. He forgot everything he'd ever known, and then he forgot that there had been anything to forget in the first place. There had never been anything but this, this red-washed eternal _now,_ and the regular strokes of the lash biting into him were as familiar, and as inevitable, as his own heartbeat.

The only thing he knew for certain was that he had to stay completely silent. He didn't know why that was important, but somewhere deep in his mind, where the last few stubborn flickers of _Newkirk_ were struggling to stay intact, came the steel-edged determination that he would not make a sound.

And he didn't.

He didn't. Later, when he regained the ability to form a coherent thought, he would take a bitter sort of pride in that. And even years later, he clung to that pride, when, for the thousandth time, he was pretending not to notice the horrified fascination—or worse, the horrified _pity_ —that always appeared in people's eyes the first time they saw his scars.

*.*.*.*.*

The prisoners stood in their assigned places, and they did nothing. They watched, because there was nothing else they could do, because any sort of resistance would have only extended the punishment. They watched. And they each hated themselves for their helplessness, almost as much as they each hated themselves for being secretly, shamefully, bone-deep grateful that it wasn't _them_ tied to the post.

"He will live," LeBeau said under his breath. "He must live. He is too stubborn to die." He'd been repeating some variation of that, at irregular intervals, since the moment the guards had dragged Newkirk away. He'd been trying to make himself believe it.

"He'll live, all right," Forrest muttered. "Lange will make sure of it."

"You think so?" Richmond said, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

"I'm certain," Forrest murmured. "Lange doesn't want him dead; he wants him suffering. You can't hurt a dead man."

"I wouldn't put it past him to try," Richmond said.

Newkirk's knees gave way, and he hung limply by his wrists. The smirking guard delivered another stripe.

Forrest made a little noise deep in the back of his throat. "Animals. Can't they see he's had enough?"

" _He_ has. _Lange_ hasn't," Richmond gritted out. "Look at the bastard. Have you ever seen him look happier?"

"Yes. The day they shot Corrigan," Foxton muttered.

"He will live," LeBeau insisted.

Forrest closed his eyes.

*.*.*.*

"Enough," Lange finally said. "Cut him down."

The guard did just that, and Newkirk collapsed, crumpled bonelessly to his hands and knees.

Lange walked over, a faint, vicious smile on his face. With his shiny, shiny jackboot, he kicked him over, pinned him flat on his back in the mud, and looked down at him.

"No escapes," he said, softly, mockingly, then raised his voice to carry across the entire compound. "Consider this your last warning, prisoners. No one escapes Stalag 13. And the next time someone tries… I will not be nearly as lenient. Do we understand one another?"

No one said anything.

Lange's voice sharpened. "I said, _do you understand_?"

"Yes, Kommandant," said the senior POW officer, one Captain Weston, sparing any of the other men the need to respond.

"Good," Lange said, turning to go. "Dismissed."

"Come on," Forrest said after a long moment. "Let's get him back to the barracks and see what… what can be done for him."

LeBeau was already halfway there; Richmond and Forrest hurried to catch up. Newkirk was a rack of bones; picking him up and getting him back to the barracks was no great feat of strength.

Call it pride, call it stubbornness, call it years of practice, but Newkirk hadn't made a sound. He hadn't screamed. He certainly hadn't begged for mercy. If he'd cried, it was too softly for the other prisoners to hear. No, he hadn't screamed, and he didn't scream now. It was worse than that. As they carried him back to the barracks, semiconscious and disoriented, he just mumbled, over and over, "No more, Dad… no more. I'll be good, I promise. Please, Dad. I'm sorry. Please… no more…"

The kriegies didn't dare look at one another. They just quickened their pace, trying to get him indoors before anyone, particularly anyone German, could hear him. He'd lost enough of his dignity already.

Forrest kicked the barracks door open, and they got him inside. "On the table," he said. "It's cleaner than the mattresses."

With one sweep of his arm, LeBeau sent everything to the floor, then snatched a blanket off of the nearest bunk. He snapped it out like a tablecloth, and in one practiced motion flung it neatly over the rough boards of the table. Carefully, Forrest and Richmond lay him on it, face down. The oozing lacerations on his back were obscene. LeBeau, who had not really gotten a good look at the damage until then, went pale.

"LeBeau… go to Barracks Eight. If Jensen's still is still operational, get a bottle. More than one, if he has them. As much as he'll give you. We need it," Forrest said. They did, too. Newkirk needed the alcohol, and LeBeau needed the distraction. "It's the closest thing to a disinfectant we've got. Or an anesthetic."

" _Oui_ ," LeBeau said, and hurried away. Any errand, no matter how futile, was better than standing there, helpless.

Foxton looked dubious. "Jensen's home brew is all but lethal at the best of times. You can't seriously be considering letting him drink that rotgut. And cleaning the wounds with it will probably hurt more than getting them in the first place. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"If you have a better one, now's the time," said Forrest, rummaging in his locker for a clean cloth. "Any help is better than none."

"This isn't _help_ , though. The shock is liable to kill him outright," said Foxton.

"I almost hope it does," said Forrest. He settled for a somewhat ragged undershirt as the best he was going to find. It was clean, at least by stalag standards. It would have to do. "God forgive me for saying it. But there's far too much filth in those cuts, and he was in a bad way _before_ this. Infection is damned near certain, and blood poisoning isn't a good way to go."

"Krauts are one thing, but if he dies from what _we_ do to him, it'll likely kill LeBeau as well," Foxton said stubbornly.

Forrest's hands tightened on the shirt until his knuckles were white. "Don't you think I know that? Either way, LeBeau's likely to try settling scores with the first Kraut he sees, and then we'll have _two_ graves to dig! What in hell do you—"

Richmond caught his breath, and gave Forrest a quick head-shake. Forrest, startled, looked down. Newkirk had lifted his head a fraction and was looking at him. His eyes were glassy with pain, but lucid; he'd obviously heard every word they'd said.

Forrest swallowed. "Right. Newkirk, it's up to you. LeBeau's gone for some alcohol. We can try using it to disinfect these cuts. It'll hurt like hell and I can't guarantee it'll do any good. Or you can drink it to dull the pain until… until you don't need it anymore. It's your choice."

Newkirk closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded wearily. His choice. Sure. It was no choice at all. So what else was new.

"Half a chance… better than none," he murmured. "Do it."

They did.

He hadn't made a sound during the actual beating. Lange wanted him to, therefore he wouldn't; it was just that simple. He didn't cry out until his friends poured that first splash of raw alcohol onto his lacerated back and begun cleaning the wounds. And he didn't pass out until well after they'd emptied the second bottle.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

East Germany, 1969

Newkirk came awake with a start, drenched with sweat and his heart pounding so loudly that it was a miracle the guards hadn't heard it. That damned dream…

No prizes for guessing why he was having it now, of course. He took a deep breath, and then another. _Come on, then, Mister Corporal Agent Jack Peter Pierre Rhys Penny Newkirk Selden, Esquire. Get a hold of yourself, you bleeding idiot. You've been in worse situations than this…well, probably. Just as bad, anyhow. Not good, in any case. Just keep calm._

There was a gunshot somewhere down the corridor. Newkirk did not find it particularly helpful with regards to maintaining a state of calm.

A moment after the gunshot, the cell door opened. Lange, a wild, feral look on his face, burst in. "Come on," he said.

Newkirk blinked. "Come on where?"

"Out," said Lange shortly.

"Out? How?"

"As quickly as possible," Lange snapped, and used his drawn—and smoking—gun to motion Newkirk towards the door. He had to step over the body of a guard to leave the cell, which at least explained the gunshot. And Lange's hurry.

Lange stooped to salvage the dead guard's gun, shoving it into his own pocket. "Move, Englander. Move! Get me to safety!"

"Dream on," Newkirk said. "You're done for, Lange."

Lange leveled the gun at him. "For your own sake, if not mine. Get. Me. Out."

"You'll kill me anyway," Newkirk snapped. And the chances that Lange would actually keep his word about letting him warn the others about the mole had just gone from 'slim' to 'none.' He had no more incentive to do anything but watch Lange get his just deserts. "Said so yourself."

"Yes," said Lange. "As soon as I don't need you anymore, I will shoot you. It will be quick. My colleagues, on the other hand, will keep you alive for _months_. Well, _technically_ alive, at least."

Someday, Newkirk mused, it would be very interesting to be given a choice where even one of the alternatives wasn't appalling. On the off chance he survived the next twenty-four hours, he made a mental note to try to arrange for a decision that didn't involve trying to decide which worst-case scenario was preferable. Just to see what it was _like_.

He sighed. Half a chance was better than none. "Frontal assault, then? Try to make it to the gates before your chums notice that you've tendered your resignation?"

Lange nodded grimly, and the two of them took off down the corridor.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Washington DC, 1946

Hogan sat at his desk in his shiny new office in the Pentagon and did his job. There was paperwork to do. Lots and lots of paperwork. So far as he could tell, it spontaneously regenerated in his inbox, because no matter how much of it he did, there was never any less of it waiting to be done. The level just never seemed to go down. There was a fairly good chance, he thought, that he'd died and gone to Hell, and simply hadn't noticed.

But then again, it was crazy to feel homesick for a prison camp, so there was an equally good chance that he'd gone insane and just hadn't noticed _that_ , either. Every once in a while he caught himself wishing that he'd wake up some morning and find himself back in that rickety, splintery orange-crate bunk with the lumpy straw mattress and the inadequate blanket and the wind whistling through the knotholes in the wall. With something real, something _important_ to do that day. And with his whole team, ready and waiting and indomitable, just on the other side of the plank door.

Of course, he reminded himself bitterly, if he ever had suddenly found himself back in prison, he'd probably have remembered pretty damned quickly why he'd wanted to badly to get _out_ of it in the first place. Newkirk remembered, he was sure of that much.

The office door opened, and his adjutant stepped inside. Justifiably nervous, he cleared his throat. "Sir… General Barton is here to see you."

Great, great; this was just what he needed to really cap off the day. He stood up as Barton strode inside, looking even more irritated than usual.

"What the hell is going on, Hogan?" he asked, without bothering with pleasantries. "I thought you were trying to do something about that corporal of yours."

"Didn't work out," Hogan said shortly. "He's back in jail. Got caught robbing a pub or something. Once a crook, always a crook, I guess. Some guys you just can't save."

Barton looked piercingly at him, then closed the office door. "Huh. That explains why every phone call I made ended with me being told to mind my own damn business," he said, much more gently. "One thing I have to say about the Brits; they've got the politest, and most unmistakable, way of telling a man to go to Hell that I've ever heard. Would I be right in assuming that every word you just said to me is either a cover story or an outright lie?"

Hogan's shoulders slumped. "Yeah. Well, most of it's a cover story. He really is in jail; that part's true. And I guess it's also true that there are some people you can't save. I couldn't, anyway."

Barton nodded. "Siddown, Hogan," he said, taking his own advice.

Hogan obeyed.

"I really thought I'd tied up all the loose ends," Hogan said after a long moment. "I mean, my God, I even put in a good word for the less obnoxious Germans at the camp. I thought I had everything under control."

"And?"

"And I was wrong. Worse than that; I was _careless_. I never gave so much as a thought to any consequences. I'd forgotten about that damned broadcast almost before he'd finished recording it; there were just too many other fires to put out and only so many hours in the day. It just never occurred to me to do anything about it."

Barton shrugged. "What _could_ you have done about it? Once that crap hit the airwaves, there was no taking it back."

"I should never have ordered him to do it in the first place. I should have realized what I was setting him up for. Hell—I _did_ realize it; she wasn't the only propagandist who visited the camp! Every other time, I made sure that nothing _I_ said could come back to bite me later, and I left him to twist. Some commander I am."

"Everything's clearer in hindsight," Barton said.

"Yeah, well. In hindsight, I did exactly the same thing to him that you were going to do to me. Except that _I_ didn't have the excuse of not having all the facts."

"No, you didn't. From the sounds of it, you didn't have the luxury of other options, either. From where I'm sitting, it looks like you made the same calculation I made every day; you spent one life to save others. It just took a little longer for the bill to come due."

"I'm the one who should have had to pay that bill. Not him."

Barton looked him straight in the eyes, and he suddenly looked old. "Do you think I wasn't saying the same thing every time I read the casualty reports from bombing runs?"

Hogan looked away.

"Some of the missions I ordered were successes. Some of them weren't. The casualty reports didn't get easier to read either way."

"I know. I know," Hogan said. "I sent a lot of good men to their deaths when I commanded the 504th. But this feels different. Maybe it's just that they died at the hands of their enemies, and for a _reason_. Everything he's gone through was at the hands of his own people, and for a mistake. _My_ mistake."

"I'm not saying you didn't foul up, Hogan. You did. Maybe there was some other way you could have handled things; maybe there wasn't. You'll never know for sure. And you're never going to know how things might have turned out if you'd done differently."

"I'll never stop wondering about it, either."

"No. You won't. That's command. When things go well, you get half the credit; when they go wrong, you get double the guilt. And whether they go right or wrong, you get to lie awake at night trying to make a whole lot of ghosts understand why they had to die." He stood up, straightened his already ramrod-straight tunic and walked to the door. "Hogan. Your corporal's still alive, at least. Count yourself lucky. There are nights I'd give damn near anything to have even that much to hold on to."


	25. Chapter 25

Stalag 13, 1943

"Er… sergeant?" said Goldman.

"Damn it, Newkirk, this isn't funny! Now hand them over, you bastard, before I come over there and _make_ you—"

"I can't give you what I haven't ruddy well got! What in hell would I want with your old rubbish, anyway?"

"Um… Mills? Mills!"

"Shut _up_ , Goldman!" Sergeant Mills took a step towards Newkirk, his eyes narrowed to slits and his fists clenched. "Right, you want to do this the hard way? One way or the other, I'm getting them back; it's just a matter of how many teeth you still have left when I do."

Newkirk glared at him, and didn't back down an inch. "Oh, that's charming, that is. Taking lessons in tactics from the Gestapo now, are we?" Two men edged closer to the argument, their postures less than friendly. Newkirk's mouth twisted. "Bloody hell. You seriously think you need two mates to hold me down while you put the boot in? The Gestapo'll be taking lessons from _you_ —"

" _Sergeant Mills!_ " Goldman, a mild-mannered sort, who was not at all used to shouting at his bunkmates, even, or perhaps especially, when they were being utter jackasses, took a deep breath. "Mills… is this them?"

The barracks went dead silent as Goldman held up a small packet of what looked like letters. Mail, in a POW camp, was not merely a pleasant diversion, not merely a lifeline. Mail was _sacred_. Even the sort of mail they got, months out of date and censored into near-incomprehensibility, was proof that they had not been forgotten by the rest of the world, that there even _was_ still a rest of the world. There was not a man among them who did not understand the unreasoning fury that had gripped Mills when his letters had gone missing… and not a man who didn't realize how far out of line he'd gone.

"They… they'd slipped down between your mattress and the side of the bunk," Goldman babbled. "There's a crack in the frame, and, um… there was just a corner sticking out and I guess you didn't see them, and, um…"

Mills looked at the packet of letters, then at Newkirk, and fumbled for something to say.

Newkirk took the matter out of his hands. "Never you mind, then," he said with a pleasant smile. "These things happen, don't they? Can't blame you any for picking the most likely suspect when it comes to locked footlockers, now can we?" The smile faded. "But just so we're clear, lads. There are a couple of rules when it comes to this sort of thing, and one of them is this— _you don't shit where you eat_. Stealing from my mates wouldn't be exactly clever at the best of times, and doing it when we all know damned well that I am _always_ going to be the one what gets told to turn out his pockets is just plain daft. And that's supposing I _wanted_ your bloody post, and I can't think of a single reason I would. I'm actually more than a tad insulted you think I'm enough of a ruddy fool to just lift it, because, believe you me, if I did want it, I'd've come up with a better plan than _that._ "

Hogan, who had entered the barracks in time to catch the last bit of that, strode into the middle of the floor, not-so-subtly separating the two combatants. "What's going on here?" Hogan kept his voice light; no sense in adding fresh fuel to the fire if it could be avoided.

"It's my fault, sir," Mills started.

"Not a bit of it," Newkirk interrupted again. "Just a little philosophical discussion, sir; nothing to trouble yourself with. I'd appreciate it if you'd do me a small favor, though, Colonel." He kicked open his own locker, stepped pointedly away from it. "As much fun as this little chinwag's been, I don't think we need to do it again anytime soon. So I'd take it as a kindness if you'd search my things, sir. Doesn't have to be now, if it's not convenient; just do spot-checks every now and then, make sure there's nothing in there what oughtn't to be."

Hogan narrowed his eyes; Newkirk's face was open and earnest, which was suspicious in and of itself. Even Schultz knew that the more innocent the Cockney looked, the more trouble was brewing behind those clear green eyes. "Newkirk, I hardly think that's necessary." He shoved his hands in his pockets, pointedly not coming any closer. "Nothing's been stolen, nothing's missing, nobody needs to have their lockers tossed."

"No, not this time, sir," he replied smoothly. "But I do think we'd all feel a tad better if you were a bit more obvious about keeping on top of the situation. With a dodgy bastard like me running about, the men need to know all their bits and bobs are safe and sound, and _I'd_ feel better if they all know you're keeping a firm hand on my leash, so we won't have no more of these little dust-ups."

The floor, it seemed, had become intensely interesting, Hogan noted. A good third of the men in the barracks were studying it. This was going to get exceptionally ugly. Newkirk was smiling again, and the bitter edge to his voice was an oddly painful counterpoint to the genial expression.

Mills tried again. "Look, it's all my fault—I just flew off the handle, and I owe you an apology—"

"You don't owe me a damned thing, and I wouldn't want it even if you did. Glad you've found your post. Colonel, may I be dismissed?"

Hogan nodded slowly. "Sure, Newkirk. Get some air."

"I'll do that very thing, sir." Newkirk saluted and walked out with his head held high, leaving the locker wide open.

With a sigh, Hogan slammed it shut. He turned a cold gaze on Mills. "Next time you feel the need to make a scene, Sergeant, could you do us all a favor and resist the urge? We're all supposed to be on the same damned side here."

Mills, still clutching the packet of letters, turned a bit pink around the ears. "I know, sir. I was way out of line. I have no excuse."

"No, you don't," Hogan agreed. "Consider yourself on report. We'll discuss this in more detail later. Anyone else have some dirty laundry to air?"

A dozen mumbled variations on 'no' still hanging in the air, Hogan nodded crisply. "Good. Dismissed."

As Hogan walked back into his office, and the barracks lurched back to some semblance of normal behavior, Carter shook his head. "Boy, that was a real mess. Why did Newkirk want the Colonel to go through his stuff? We all know he wouldn't take anything he didn't give right back." There wasn't a man in the camp—and that included the guards—who hadn't been handed his own watch or wallet at one time or another, but Carter was right. That was as far as it had ever gone.

LeBeau, elbow deep in preparations for their evening meal, did not look up from his cutting board. "Punishment, Carter. Think of it as a sort of mental cooler."

"Huh. Maybe you're right. Well, Mills really was being a jerk, and he deserved to be embarrassed like that. I can't blame Newkirk for wanting to put him in his place."

" _Non_. Pierre was not trying to punish Mills for the false accusation," he said. "That was not why he insisted on that farce with his footlocker."

"Then what was he doing?"

"He was punishing himself." LeBeau's voice was tight.

"What? Why? He didn't _do_ anything!"

"Ah, but he did. He allowed himself to believe that he is trusted." LeBeau sighed. "There will be no living with him for a few days."

"That's crazy," Carter objected. "Of course we trust him! We've all saved each other's lives a hundred times!"

" _C'est vrai_. And yet, how long did it take for Mills to convince half the barracks to turn on him?"

Carter opened his mouth, shut it again. "Still… shouldn't we go talk to him or something?"

"And say what? 'Pierre, _mon ami_ , I am sorry that when possessions go missing, suspicion falls on a thief?' It is hardly a secret that he could open any lock in camp with his eyes shut and both hands tied behind his back."

"Yeah, but he only really steals from the Germans…" Carter trailed off; even he could hear how weak that sounded.

LeBeau retrieved his knife and went back to chopping onions. The blade fell with the precision of a guillotine. "True. We know this. Colonel Hogan knows this. That idiot _Mills_ knows this. Pierre would not steal from us. He _would_ not. He, nonetheless _could_ , and at times when a man is angry and afraid, mere suspicion can easily seem like proof. _C'est fini_. It happened. It is done. If we are fortunate, we will receive a mission soon and we will all be too busy to think of this."

"Don't you even care that he's feeling rotten? I thought he was your friend too," Carter said, with just a hint too much accusation in his voice.

" _Non_. He is not. I have had many friends. Pierre is my brother," said LeBeau, and if the knife met the cutting board with a bit more force at that, the onions were in no position to complain. "Of course I care. But when there is nothing to say, it is sometimes kindest to keep silent."

Carter frowned. "That can't be right. He shouldn't be left alone."

"Perhaps not. But the last thing he wants right now is reassurance and sympathy; it would only hurt him more, and he would not believe it anyway. Leave him his dignity, and let it be."

"But that's no good either! He'll think that _we_ think Mills was right to suspect him."

"He has spent the greater part of his life being suspected, Andre," LeBeau said. "Do you think it is easy for him to trust? To believe that he _is_ trusted? He _already_ thinks we think that."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Kinch wasn't _trying_ to spy on their thief. He wasn't. If he just happened to wander on past some of Newkirk's preferred leave-me-the-hell-alone-for-five-bloody-minutes hideouts, well, it was a fairly small camp, and there really were only so many places a man could go. Coincidences happened. And sure enough, a casual stroll past the delousing station revealed a lanky form holding up the wall, unseeing eyes on the dirt and fists clenched in impotent frustration.

He looked like what he was—a man who had spent far too many years of his life behind barbed wire. Half-starved, half-frozen, half-beaten, half-broken. He had been in the camp longer than anyone else, including most of the guards, and even taking that into consideration, he had spent more time in the cooler than any three other prisoners put together. He had gritted his teeth and survived more than any man's fair share of privations and punishments, of hunger and cold, of beatings, interrogations, and worse. He had voluntarily stayed in Hell, risking his life on mission after hare-brained mission, with no real prospect of anything but the wrong end of a rifle or a rope for his pains, and he had done it all with a cheeky smirk and a wisecrack. Because that, he had decided, was what the others needed from him. And he was probably right.

Newkirk was a lot of things, and he readily admitted to most of them, but at his core, he was a protector. You might want to kill the man sometimes, and the feeling might well be mutual, but once he'd decided that you were his responsibility, he'd stand between you and the devil himself if it seemed necessary. Whether you wanted him to or not. He didn't actually care much about that bit of it, and your opinion on the matter was duly noted and blithely ignored.

The scene in the barracks had been damned poor repayment for his service.

Some sixth sense alerted him to Kinch's presence before the radioman could decide whether or not to slip away, and he looked up. Kinch watched, a bit impressed, a lot saddened, as his friend slipped back into the persona of devil-may-care Peter Newkirk without missing a beat.

"Allo, mate," Newkirk said easily. "Out for a stroll by scenic Barracks 8?"

"Well, their view of the trash heap is second to none," Kinch replied.

"How true, how true," Newkirk agreed, just a hint of a smile peeking from the corners of his mouth. "The gentle zephyrs wafting the scent of rotting cabbage, sun glinting off the rusty tin cans… Like a garden in springtime, it is."

Kinch grinned back. "Wouldn't know, actually. There aren't that many gardens in Detroit, and mostly they smelled like exhaust fumes, just like the rest of the city."

"London smelled worse than that, but we city lads might be the fortunate ones. Carter was rabbiting on about the farms back where he comes from, and when he got to the bit about spreading manure all over the place— _on purpose_ —just where a fellow's got to walk, well, I thanked my lucky stars I grew up somewhere civilized."

Going by some of the things he'd let slip over the years, 'civilized' was not actually the word Kinch would have used to describe the neighborhood where Newkirk had grown up. "Guess it's all a matter of what you're used to," he said.

Newkirk glanced eloquently at the guard towers. "Blimey, mate, if that's true, God help us all."

"Oh, He will," Kinch said. "He has so far, after all."

Newkirk shrugged. "Daresay," was all he said. He didn't believe in much that he couldn't see, and Kinch knew it. Newkirk believed in his own ten fingers and the quick brain behind them. He believed in the Colonel, and he believed in their mission and the unquestionable rightness of it. He _had_ believed in the comrades watching his back—Kinch only prayed he still did—and he believed in his own near-pathological need to guard the people he cared about, and by extension, the rest of the world, from harm. And… not much else, so far as Kinch was aware.

When all was said and done, their trips through the tunnel notwithstanding, they were only prisoners, and prisoners were routinely stripped of their possessions. They were issued clothes and bedding that could be confiscated at any time. Barracks were inspected and footlockers tossed on a semi-regular basis; anything the guards deemed contraband was severely punished, and anything deemed interesting was stolen. Their mail was censored into illegibility; Red Cross packages were habitually shorted. Even their bodies weren't really their own; after the first couple of times they'd been strip searched on a whim or herded into the delousing station at the point of a rifle, the humiliation became simply another thing to accept and endure. Their captors counted on that; take a man's dignity, his pride, and you've gone a long way towards taking his will to resist. Stalag 13 was, for obvious reasons, better than most. But the principle remained; the only things a prisoner could unequivocally call his own were his faith and his friends. Newkirk had taken a hit to both, and Kinch was afraid for him.

"Look, mate," Newkirk said, tiring of the game. "If you're out here to make sure I'm all right, I am and I thank you, but get back to the barracks, would you? It's too bloody cold to stand about counting the clouds."

"Same goes for you," Kinch said, just as bluntly. "Mills was being an ass, and he knows it. Come back in, and let him apologize before he explodes."

"Nothing to apologize for. Mills was getting a bit wire-happy. Just needed to have a go at someone, let off a bit of steam. If not me, it would've been whoever else crossed his path. No harm done."

"Sure. And that's why you're standing out here without so much as a jacket, right? Come on, Pete. He's sorry, half the guys in the barracks are giving him dirty looks, and the other half are trying to seem casual about glancing out the window every five seconds to see if you're okay. Come back and smooth things over before _I_ go nuts, all right?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes, but pushed himself away from the wall. "We need to blow something up, and no mistake," he said dryly.

"You're probably right," Kinch agreed. "We've been sitting around watching our fingernails grow for more than two weeks. I'm starting to feel like a prisoner."

"Ah, well, we can't have that, now can we?" Newkirk said. "Perhaps a very stern chat with the chaps over in London is in order. For that matter, perhaps we ought to have a stern chat with the lads in Berlin, as well. Letting prisoners get this bored is probably a violation of the Geneva Convention."

It would have been so much easier if he'd sounded angry. As a rule, if Newkirk was sounding off about something, he either was or was going to be just fine. Even if he'd sounded hurt— and Kinch knew him well enough to be absolutely certain that the contretemps in the barracks had cut him to the quick— there might have been ways to help, to heal.

But he didn't. He just sounded tired. He was playing along, both because it was the right thing to do and because he would have cut his own throat with a rusty butter knife before admitting that anything was wrong. But he couldn't quite hide a bone-deep weariness with the way things were and probably always would be. He wore his past like a brand, and Kinch, who had his own experiences with the summary judgment of the ignorant to grapple with, understood in a way the others, perhaps, never could.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

None of the men still sitting in the conference room could hear the low-voiced conversation between Stephens and Donnelly, and their expressions gave nothing away.

They didn't hear any of it. Not just then. Later, it would all be parsed and analyzed and studied to the point of absurdity. But they didn't hear it then. Frankly, they didn't need to.

Because everyone saw Stephens, with dignity in his every move and heartbreak in his eyes, walk calmly to Kay's desk and methodically begin to search it, and they saw the stricken, almost guilty look that flickered over Donnelly's face as he did so.

Said it all, really.


	26. Chapter 26

London, 1946

The debriefing from that first mission had taken most of the day, and Newkirk's voice was gravelly with exhaustion and overuse well before they were through. But they did finish, eventually; he shook the cramp out of his shoulders, and stood up.

"Oh, one last thing," said Stephens.

He grimaced, but dropped obediently back into his seat. "Bloody hell, Stephens. We've been going over 'one last thing' for two and a half hours. Every time I finish with one, you think of another. Can't this wait for the morning?"

"No," said Stephens decisively. He fished a key ring from a desk drawer and tucked it in his pocket. "I'm rather afraid that it can't. But you'll like this one. Come on."

"Stephens, I'm knackered. Come on _where_?"

"You'll see," said Stephens.

"Wonderful. More bleeding secrets."

"Nature of the beast, dear fellow. They don't call us 'secret' agents for nothing."

Newkirk rolled his eyes to the heavens, but there was no help for it. He got to his feet, gathered up hat and jacket, and followed Stephens out of the office and down to the street.

Stephens hailed a cab, gave the driver an address, then spent the rest of the fairly short drive smiling faintly and refusing to explain why. Newkirk, thinking uncharitable thoughts about the older man's sense of humor, just watched the scenery passing by his window with profound disinterest.

He'd been undercover, and on round-the-clock high alert, for nearly nine months—three inside, which had, in retrospect, been the _easy_ part, and six out—and now that the job was done, he had absolutely no idea what might be next on the bill. For all he knew, this mission had been a one-off, and tomorrow he'd be pounding the pavement looking for someone willing to hire him. In fact, for all he knew, the brass would decide they'd had it right the first time, tidy up a loose end, and tomorrow he'd be back walking the yard at Wandsworth. He wouldn't put it past them to do precisely that, in fact; it wasn't as though he didn't already know the usual reward for a dirty job well done. Outliving your usefulness rarely ended well. Just now he was too tired to care. Tomorrow would arrive soon enough; he'd worry about it then.

"And what's this, then?" Newkirk asked, as they arrived at what looked like a perfectly ordinary block of flats. A great deal nicer than the ones he was used to, of course, but, then, that wasn't a particularly high bar to clear.

"Home," Stephens said, looking, and sounding, like a cat with a mouthful of canary, and pulled the keys out of his pocket. "Where else? You _did_ say you were tired, didn't you?"

Newkirk had to admit that the prospect of sleeping in Stephens' spare room until he could find a place of his own sounded a great deal more comfortable than bunking down in one of the agency's holding cells, not to mention far more affordable than finding a hotel, and those had been the only two ideas he'd been able to come up with. Going back to the digs he'd been using during the mission was not an option, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, he'd just arranged for his erstwhile flatmate, and quite a number of his flatmate's closest friends and associates, including their landlord, to spend the rest of their lives behind bars, which probably violated the lease agreement in some fashion, and certainly hadn't won him any friends. Besides, the plumbing was unreliable.

"Sounds good to me. And thanks," he said. "I'll admit I was wondering where I was going to lay my head tonight."

Stephens' smile faded a bit as he opened the door of the building. "Yes, I'm sure you were. I do wish you'd trust me to take care of that sort of thing. It _is_ part of my job, you know." He cleared his throat. "Come. The flat is on the first floor."

They climbed the staircase in silence. Stephens stopped at one of the doors, and unlocked it, waving Newkirk to precede him.

The front door opened on a neat, if rather impersonal, sitting room. He couldn't see the rest of the flat from there, but if that first room was any indication, the place was sparsely, but adequately, furnished. No art on the walls or curtains on the windows, but all of the necessities were there. There were even a few extras, including a comfortable-looking sofa. And guests.

Mavis was sitting on that sofa, next to a man he didn't recognize. She was holding a baby.

It would be hard to say which of those things shocked him more. What was she doing _here?_ Why had she come? He froze, staring at her, at them, then turned a quick, panicky glance on Stephens. He had to have brought her here, brought _them_ here; logically, there was no other way she could have known where he was. But why? Why?

Stephens wouldn't have brought her here just so she could tell him off one last time. Would he? No, he _couldn't_ have done. Nobody was that cruel. Nobody.

He stood in the doorway, his mind spinning, one hand still gripping the doorknob, white-knuckled, not sure whether he was supposed to enter. Not sure what was going to happen if he did.

He _was_ sure that he couldn't take another scene like the last one. He just couldn't go through it again. He wasn't strong enough for that.

Nobody was.

When it became obvious that he would not—or, more accurately, _could_ not—approach her, the mountain came to Muhammad; Mavis handed the child to her husband, got up, and walked towards Newkirk, who stood stock still, silently waiting for _coup de grace_. She seemed to have run out of words, too. They looked at each other for a moment, with lost years and missed opportunities and unspeakable memories filling the air around them.

"That's my daughter," she finally said, and swallowed hard. "Her name is Petra."

He blinked. Petra? The child was far too small to have been born and christened before… well, before any of it. And no one named a child after a traitor or a disgrace. Which in turn had to mean…

It was a good thing he'd kept a grip on that doorknob. An unexpected mercy can pack more of a wallop than predictable pain, and his knees nearly buckled under the weight of the overwhelming, pitiful relief that swamped him. He had stood in the dock and heard the words 'not guilty' with less emotion. It had been so long since he'd even let himself imagine something like this.

"She's even prettier than you were, Mave," he said softly, his heart pounding in his ears.

She nodded smug agreement, but her eyes were already wet, and her voice cracked. "Peter… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about everything. I didn't mean it."

He stepped into the room, letting go of the door without a thought, and automatically pulled her close, just the way he had when she'd been small and cried over a skinned knee or a nightmare. As always, his own emotions faded from his notice; now it was only _her_ distress he saw, only _her_ pain he focused on soothing. It was either his best trait or his worst. "Hush now. I know. It's all right, luv. Don't even think of it anymore. It's all right."

"It's not all right," she said into the shoulder of his jacket. "I didn't know what to do. I made myself be angry, because that was just so much easier than letting myself admit that I was alone and afraid, and it was horrible of me." She lifted her head. She was crying in earnest now, but she looked straight at him with a desperate intensity, and the short, disjointed, staccato phrases tumbled out like pebbles before an avalanche. "I didn't mean it, Peter. I _never_ meant it. I need you to know that. I love you. You're not just my brother. You're my father in every way that counts. You have to believe me—I _never_ meant any of the terrible things I said, not really, not even before I found out what had really happened. I was just so frightened. For me _and_ for you. Please. I'm so sorry. You have to believe me. You _have_ to believe me."

"Of course I believe you," he said, smoothing her hair away from her tearstained face. "Shh. Don't fret yourself so, Mave darling. It's all right even if you did mean it. Don't you think I know how bad it all looked?"

"That shouldn't have mattered. You're _family_. I should have believed in you, even before they explained. I'm so sorry I didn't. I'll never forgive myself."

"No harm done. It's enough you believe me now, Mave. _More_ than enough. All over and done with in any case. Just forget it and never think of it again." After a moment, wryly curious, he asked, "But who's 'they,' and what did 'they' tell you?"

"Well, first your friend Colonel Hogan tracked me down. He told me that he'd ordered you to say those things on the radio. That it was all his fault, not yours."

"That's the Guv for you," he said, with a crooked smile. "Not much he wouldn't do for his men."

"Well, he didn't tell me the _whole_ truth. I didn't learn the rest of it until your friend Mr. Stephens knocked on my door with a wild story straight out of a film serial and enough proof to convince me that he wasn't a lunatic. Which, I admit, took a while."

He had? Newkirk looked back at Stephens, who had followed him into the room and quietly shut the door behind him. He nodded, with a faint smile.

Newkirk suddenly remembered that first interrogation-slash-negotiation. Agent What's-His-Name had offered this, offered to explain the whole sordid mess to Mavis. Newkirk had assumed that it was a lie, a trap, or both, and categorically refused. No one had mentioned it since. He'd never expected the man to actually go through with it. He'd never expected that it would matter either way. He'd never expected that she'd forgive him even if she _did_ know. Never expected that she _should_.

He'd never expected to have a family again.

The man, presumably the husband, approached. "Hello," he said, somewhat uncomfortably, although that might have been partially due to the increasingly wriggly baby in his arms. "I'm Geoffrey Blake. Geoff. It's… ah… nice to meet you."

Newkirk looked him over. Young, not bad looking. Clean shaven. Plain, neat haircut. BBC Standard accent with a very faint hint of Liverpool lurking underneath. Smooth hands, clean fingernails, newish, decent quality suit—not bespoke, but it fit well enough and it hadn't belonged to three other people before he got it, either. Indoor job, then, with reasonably good pay. He'd served, during the war; there was enough of it left in his posture to be noticeable. Honest face. Kind eyes. The fellow looked more than a tad nervous, understandably enough, but it seemed to be meeting-the-relatives nervous, rather than get-this-criminal-away-from-my-wife nervous, and no one was immune to that. "Hello," he said. "Nice to meet you too. Thanks for taking such good care of Mave."

"Not that she needs much taking care of," Geoff said, with the adoring smile of the truly besotted. "If anything, she takes care of _me_. And now Patty, too."

"Too right," Newkirk agreed. "Welcome to the family, anyhow."

"Thank you. And… ah… welcome _back_ to the family, Peter," Geoff said seriously. He passed the squirming baby back to her mother, (at which point she immediately stopped fussing,) and solemnly extended a hand as though they were sealing a deal.

And perhaps they were, at that. Newkirk took a breath, then extended his own hand. They shook. "Thanks. But my name's not Peter, not anymore. I'm John… no, wait. Make that _Jack_. Jack Selden."

The name still felt awkward on his tongue. He still wasn't sure he liked it. But there was no going back now, and he might as well get used to it first as last.

Geoff nodded understanding. "All right, Jack. I… never had a brother, growing up. I'm glad to have one now."

Either he meant it, or he was one hell of a good actor, Newkirk thought, still not quite believing that any of this was real. It was too much, too perfect. It was too much like getting everything he had tried to reconcile himself to losing, everything he had ever wanted, handed to him on a silver plate, and that just wasn't how the world worked. It was never that easy. There was always a catch, somewhere. Always a sting in the tail. He looked back at Stephens.

Stephens was still lurking by the door, silent and overlookable, careful to stand well away from a family scene in which he had no part. He handed Newkirk the key ring. "As promised," he said, with a nod. "You've finally made it back from the war, Agent Selden. Welcome home."

Newkirk took the keys— _his_ keys, apparently— more or less automatically. "I guess I have, Stephens. Thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me," Stephens said, with a bit of mischief in his voice. "You've more than earned it, and I confidently expect that you'll continue to do so. We've a great deal of work to do, and you haven't even met the rest of our team yet. I want you in the office bright and early… the day after tomorrow. There should be suitable clothing in your bedroom, enough to get you through the first few days, anyhow."

Ah. That settled that, then. Not a one-off mission, after all. This was his life now. Newkirk nodded slowly, thinking it over, and unconsciously squared his shoulders under the burden. There were always going to be a great many things in the world that needed to be set right or, better yet, headed off at the pass. The shooting might have stopped, but the war wasn't over; that meant there was still work for an Unsung Hero. His job wasn't done yet.

All things considered, there were worse things to do with a life. _Far_ worse.

"Yes, sir," he finally said. He smiled, and for the first time in... well, a bloody long time, it reached his eyes. "First thing in the morning."

"Splendid," said Stephens. "I'll see you then."

"Wait. Stephens… Just out of curiosity. That first day. What would you have done if I _had_ just taken the identity papers and walked out?"

Stephens chuckled. "I would have been very, very surprised. Now go be with your family."

And he walked away, his own eyes a bit shiny, his faint smile a bit paternal, and feeling better—more hopeful—about the future than he had in more than a year. Some things couldn't be fixed.

But some could.

And would.

They—himself, his colleagues, and now the newly rechristened Selden, too—would see to it.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

And that was how it started. He did the job because someone had to. He did it because he was good at it. He did it because it was where he was needed. After a while, and it wasn't a long while, he did it because he was proud of it, proud that every morning that didn't have horrors splashed over the headlines was at least partially thanks to him. He did it because people were counting on him. He did it because heroism becomes second nature after a while. In the final analysis, he did it because he didn't have any other choice in the matter, and it had nothing to do with his legal history.

He did it because he was what he was.


	27. Chapter 27

Stalag 13, 1942

The new senior POW was physically affectionate in a way Newkirk had never seen from an officer, especially not one from the upper echelons. And it wasn't a one-off; it was constant. He was always clapping this one on the back or slinging an arm over that one's shoulder in a familiar, chummy way that seemed to set most of them very much at their ease. Whether that was a calculated ploy or simply an unthinking display of good fellowship was a valid question.

Newkirk spent some time considering that very question. It could simply be the latter of the two options, but he doubted it. Whatever else the American was or wasn't, he was neither stupid nor naive. The apparent friendliness might even be real, but deliberately turning on the charm as he was doing could only be for a reason and was intended to provoke a reaction; probably the one he was in fact getting from most of the men. If the idea was simply to be likable, it was clearly working. What he intended to do with that reaction once obtained was less clear.

Touch could mean any number of different things. Sometimes it was simply meant to hurt, whether openly, as in a punch in the gut, or more subtly, as a wordless 'I am more powerful and you will submit.' The Yank didn't seem the type for the first, at least not until provoked, but the second was always a possibility.

As for other sorts of touch, well, this _was_ a stalag, and the rules were different. People got lonely, and it was nobody's business how anyone else chose to handle the matter. He didn't think that was what Hogan was after, either, though. Unless he missed his guess, the officer was trying to establish a more platonic sort of connection. Friendship was probably too strong a word for it—officers weren't known for striking up friendships with those under their command—but certainly camaraderie, probably as a precursor to trust. Which brought up the same question—what did he want in return? Where was that trust supposed to lead?

Genuine affection was not unheard of. Even here. But neither was entrapment; using the offer of friendliness as a lure until they had gotten what they wanted from you, at which point all bets were off. And there wasn't always a good way to tell which it was until you were already in too deep to run.

Newkirk was good at a lot of things. Trust wasn't one of them. This was at least in part due to having met very, very few people who merited it, and, often, finding out the hard way that he still hadn't.

*.*.*.*.*

There were a few German words that everyone learned almost immediately, almost by osmosis or telepathy. 'Raus' and 'achtung,' those were easy. So was 'schnell.' 'Verboten' was a little harder, but the guards were always happy to illustrate their precise meaning, and no one wanted a second lesson. And, of course, 'appell.'

Roll call. Well, that was the _official_ translation of the German word 'appell.' It was probably short for some ridiculously long Kraut phrase that meant something like 'yet another excuse to waste large amounts of your time while we alternate between screaming abuse and smirking sadistically, especially if it's cold or rainy.'

Today was neither, for a change, so standing in his assigned spot staring off into infinity wasn't as bad as usual. That, of course, was the signal for fate to take a hand.

The goon was being his usual charming self, but that was easy enough to shrug off, and it was just starting to look as though they'd made it through another appell with no casualties when Lange himself stormed down the row, walking past at least a dozen men who hadn't gotten near the business end of a razor in a while, only to stop in front of Newkirk.

"Is this what you call presentable? When did you last shave?" he snapped. "Disgraceful! Englanders are difficult enough to tell from pigs, and you make it nearly impossible! Guards!" He sneered. "Twenty-four hours in the cooler."

The new officer stepped forward, as incensed as anyone else. That was different; their previous officers had been far more inclined to let the chips fall where they would. "Kommandant, I protest! This is inhuman!"

"I'm glad you agree," Lange said. "I've never been sure what this _is_ , but it's certainly not human. Your protest is noted and denied. Take him away."

Newkirk sighed a bit, more in annoyance than anger, and went. The others watched him go. Some, like LeBeau, looked furious. Some, like Kinch, looked sympathetic. Some, like Forrest, just looked sad.

Hogan looked thoughtful. Calculating. And determined.

*.*.*.*.*

Lange, with a finely honed sense of the dramatic, left him to stew for precisely twenty-three of those hours. He appeared in the cooler himself for the twenty-fourth. He even deigned to unlock the cell door himself when he'd finished what he had to say.

Newkirk had never thought he'd _want_ to stay in the cooler, but he did now. Thirty days, sixty days—hell, 'indefinitely' had a nice ring to it. He'd be safer.

Panicking with a completely straight face was a trick he'd learned—the hard way—at an age when most kids were still struggling with the multiplication table, and, of the two skills, Newkirk rather thought that he'd gotten the more useful. God, what was he going to do?

Well, never mind that. He knew what he was _not_ going to do. The day he so much as considered being a stool pigeon was the day he'd do the world a favor and cut his own throat. _He_ knew that. The difficulty would lie in convincing anyone else as much.

He still had one precious cigarette in his pocket; he lit it now, and walked across the compound.

What if Hogan heard about the incident? Heard Lange's sordid little offer? Newkirk took a hard drag on his cigarette to camouflage the bile in the back of his throat. After all, what did Hogan know about Newkirk except that he was the precise sort of fellow your mother told you to stay away from? He wanted Newkirk's talents; he'd made no bones about that, but he'd not been the least bit shy about admitting that he was already leery enough about the package those talents came in, either. And now this. How could he hope to convince the colonel that he was on the side of the angels when even the enemy was saying otherwise?

If he told Hogan about this, sure as eggs, at _best_ he'd find himself being transferred to Stalag Anywhere But Here before the echoes had died away, either to save him from Lange if he stayed honest or to save the others from him if he went over. He couldn't let that happen.

Then again. If he _didn't_ tell Hogan about this, when the Yank found out about it anyway—which he would; he was a spy, for God's sake, finding things out was what he was _for_ —he'd be even more certain that Newkirk had taken the deal, and, (another best case scenario,) he'd find himself down the tunnel and on a transport to the stockade. He couldn't let that happen, either. Who would look after the others if he was gone? Besides, where would Hogan find someone else to make the Kommandant's safe behave itself? And less altruistically, when all was said and done, if the last words he was going to hear were going to be 'ready, aim, fire,' then he bloody well wanted—and, yes, bloody well _deserved—_ to hear them in German. Anything else was adding insult to injury.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn't. So what else was new.

It was cold in the shade. He got up and paced the length of the barracks, leaning against the opposite corner, which was still getting at least a little sun, just on the very off chance that the view might be better from that angle.

It wasn't. In fact, it was worse, because he'd moved into LeBeau's line of sight, and the Frenchman hurried over, smiling.

" _Ca va_ , Pierre? How was—" he stopped, and his expression altered abruptly. "What happened?"

"Not a clue what you're talking about, mate," he said cheerfully. One never knew. It might work.

It didn't. "Pfft. Don't even start. What has happened?"

Well, it was all going to come out sooner or later anyway. "Got called up on the carpet, that's all. Turns out Lange wanted a word with me about something other than my five o'clock shadow."

Some of the worry left LeBeau's face. Not much, but some. "Well, it is hardly the first time. And he did let you out of the cooler, so obviously it could not have been very bad. What did you do this time?"

"Nothing yet, and thank you so very much for your concern; it's overwhelming," Newkirk said.

LeBeau's eyes searched his, abandoning the dark humor. The thought of Hogan's fledgling operation hung in the air between them. "Does he suspect…?"

"No. At least, I don't think so. He suspects that we're trying to escape, but then, we're _always_ trying to escape, aren't we? I don't think he knows anything more than that. He never mentioned the colonel, anyway."

"Well, it could be worse. You should tell _le Colonel_ about this. Perhaps he can do something to lead Lange astray. Feed him false information, perhaps."

"Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know," Newkirk said, stuffing his hands in his pockets before they could shake.

"What do you not know? You don't know if we should lie to the Kommandant to throw him off the track, or you don't know if you should speak to Hogan?"

"Both," Newkirk admitted. "Neither. This wasn't one of Lange's usual fizzers. He… got a bit creative."

LeBeau looked at him, and without a word grabbed him by the sleeve and all but dragged him into the empty barracks, closing the door carefully behind them. "All right, Pierre. What happened?"

Newkirk looked at something in the middle distance. "Lange suspects that we'll be making another break for it, and he set me a task," he said, finally. "Like he did Weston. Doesn't want no more escapes in camp, and since our dear captain's long gone, Lange decided I should take up his mantle. And wasn't taking no for an answer, either."

LeBeau cocked his head, and flicked a hand in a _get on with it_ sort of gesture.

"Told me that I was going to rat on anyone planning a jaunt out of Germany. That's the long and short of it. Hinted that if I played my cards right, my life would improve drastically. If I really made my nut, he might even be open to looking the other way if I wanted to take a stroll under the stars myself some fine night. Quite a generous offer, really."

"But you did not take it," LeBeau said matter-of-factly. It was not a question. The sun would rise in the south before Newkirk went over to the enemy.

"Of course not. Even if I believed he'd keep his word, which I don't, I'm no grass, and I told him so. Didn't surprise him any, of course. I think he might even have been hoping I'd say just that; why offer bribes when threats are so much cheaper? Next time there's trouble in the camp, he says, if I don't give warning, my second go-round will be twice as bad as my first." He met LeBeau's eyes for the first time, silently begging for understanding. "Same goes for the third. And so on. If I get away, he'll pick one man from every barracks and give it to _them_ , instead. And if I run, but get caught…"

LeBeau put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "What, _mon pote_? What will he do?"

"If I'm caught," Newkirk said bleakly, "He'll drag me back to camp and make _me_ pick the men to take the punishment."

LeBeau tried to say something, anything… but choked on all of it. He just tightened his grip on Newkirk's scarred shoulder, _you are safe, you are with me, we are all safe._ Comforting lies. He wished it were that easy.

"So you see why I can't tell the colonel about this," Newkirk continued.

"You must. He cannot find a way out of this mess if he is not told that there is one," said LeBeau.

"Yes, and he'll get out of the mess by getting rid of me!" said Newkirk, and took another fierce drag on his cigarette. It calmed him down enough to elaborate. "And it can't look like I ran, neither! What else _could_ he do? No one's ever going to believe that I'd keep quiet with something like that hanging over my head. How could they? Tell me, mate. If you were Hogan, would _you_ believe I'd risk it? Will London? Hell, do you even believe it yourself?"

"…I will pretend that you did not ask me that last question," said LeBeau.

"So will I," said Hogan, who was standing at the door to his newly built quarters. Both Newkirk and LeBeau's heads snapped up in shock; no one was used to the barracks having more than one room, yet. It hadn't occurred to either of them to check the second door.

Hogan folded his arms. An operation like the one he was trying to set up ran on trust, and hearing two of his recruits debating whether he should be told about matters of literal life and death did not make him happy. Hearing said recruit's automatic assumption that Hogan would sidestep the entire problem by simply disposing of him made Hogan even less happy. Trust had to run both ways.

"Sir?" said Newkirk.

"I said I'm going to pretend that you didn't just say any of that. And the next time I catch you— or anyone else— deliberately concealing information from me, I _will_ get rid of you. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Newkirk. LeBeau echoed him.

"Good," said Hogan. "And on the subject of concealing information, what was all that about Captain Weston?"

Newkirk turned a hand palm-up. "We haven't had much luck with escapes around here. Or with anything else that Krauts wouldn't approve of. Or officers, either. Who do you think turned me in _last_ time?"

Hogan's eyes narrowed. "Why would you think he did?"

"As an officer and a gentleman, I took his word for it when he told me so."

Hogan didn't say anything for a moment while he got his fury under control. Well, _that_ explained a few things. "I see," he said evenly. This wasn't the time to discuss it. Later. "So getting back to the issue at hand, it seems to me that the simplest solution to our problem is getting rid of _Lange_. Wouldn't you agree?"

"That would be a fine solution indeed," said LeBeau. "But how?"

"Oh ye of little faith," said Hogan. Putting one hand on each man's shoulder, he gave them his most dangerous grin, the devil glittering in his dark eyes. "I'll think of something."

And he did.

That was the day Newkirk found himself daring to believe that he was finally in the hands of someone worth trusting. The day Lange left the camp for good, Newkirk was sure of it. Even the day he sat down in front of a German microphone didn't shake that certainty, or that trust. If this was the price he had to pay for what he'd been given, then so be it; it was steep, no question about that, but it wasn't unfair. No, it wasn't unfair.

*.*.*.*.*.*

East Germany, 1969

Lange knew that Newkirk was his one chance at getting out of Germany in one piece, and that it was a long shot at best and an exercise in futility at worst. That didn't mean he had even the slightest intention of giving his reluctant ally pro tem a weapon, even if it would, theoretically, improve their (statistically, miniscule) chances of escaping the Stasi.

They were two men trying to outfox and/or outrun a building full of men chosen and trained to be ruthless. Neither of them were young anymore. Lange had not spent as much time in the gym as he might have; Newkirk had spent the last several days in custody and was feeling every minute of it. They had a couple of handguns, no real plan, a very short head start, and the unnatural strength that sometimes comes along with utter desperation. Nothing else.

They shouldn't have made it out of the building. They really, really shouldn't have made it out. They _did_ , but they shouldn't have.

Cats have nine lives, or so the story goes. The only logical explanation, Newkirk reasoned, as they commandeered a car and peeled off down the road, is that spies must have ten or eleven.


	28. Chapter 28

London, 1969

After three silent blocks, Carter took a deep breath. He adjusted his glasses. It was odd; after all the bombs he'd built and detonated, none of them quiet, he'd've thought that if anything was going to go fuzzy on him, it would have been his ears, not his eyes. But it hadn't worked out that way. Not that he was complaining, and not that there was anything so terrible about eyeglasses, either; it just wasn't what he might have expected. But then again, about the only thing you could ever really expect with any certainty was that things wouldn't turn out like you'd expect.

He certainly hadn't expected the fellow they'd all pegged as their prime suspect to end up murdered, any more than he'd expected to end up in the middle of what was looking more and more like an Agatha Christie novel.

He adjusted his glasses again. Getting older wasn't for weaklings, as his father used to say. But then again, as his mother would always reply, it was a whole lot better than the alternative.

He thought about the scene they'd just left. He hadn't particularly liked Moore in the hour or so of their acquaintanceship, but someone had stolen his chance to get older, and he hadn't deserved that. And as for what _Newkirk_ had deserved… well. He wouldn't think about that just now. Far better to focus on giving the killer what _he_ (or she, or they, or whoever,) deserved. Carter had never quite lost his faith that, no matter the situation, come hell or high water, Hogan could and would figure out a way to make things, if not right, then at least better.

But that couldn't happen until they got a plan together, and there wouldn't be a plan until the colonel started improvising, and he wouldn't start improvising until somebody got his gears turning. As usual, he thought, someone was going to have to break the ice, and, as usual, it was going to have to be him.

"Boy," he said. "It sure looks like whoever it is will get away with everything."

" _Non_ ," LeBeau snapped, presumably on the principle that being emphatic enough would nudge the universe into playing fair for a change. "Never."

"Well, I sure don't see what _we_ can do," Carter persisted. "Stephens didn't want us getting involved in the first place, and he definitely doesn't want us there now. He wasn't even going to let us into the building, remember?"

"That's true," said Kinch. "It was just lucky that Donnelly character happened to be walking in at just the right time. Those guards looked to be about five minutes away from giving us the bum's rush. Less."

"Yes," said Hogan, in a tone they all recognized. "That _was_ pretty lucky, wasn't it?"

Bingo, thought Carter. Round and round she goes, and where she stops, only Hogan knows…"We'd never have gotten in there without him, that's for sure."

"And they wasted no time getting us _out_ of there either," said LeBeau. "According to Kay, anyway. I doubt that Stephens even intended to tell us what happened. Or that the plan was off."

"He might have forgotten all about us," said Kinch. "He looked pretty shaken up. We were probably the last thing on his mind."

"Bah. How did Moore put it? We were only informed about Newkirk as a 'courtesy for services rendered' long ago," said LeBeau bitterly. "Why would Stephens think to inform us of anything now?"

"He really is treating us like the 'deluded old duffers' we were going to pretend to be," said Carter.

Hogan smiled his old, dangerous smile; the one that made you feel that success was not merely possible but inevitable. You didn't have to know what he was thinking to know that you liked it. "He certainly is, Carter," he said happily. "He certainly is."

Kinch grinned, too. It was a Pavlovian response to that smile, and the intervening decades hadn't changed a thing. For an instant they were all back in the barracks, waiting with the old breathless anticipation for that lightning-flash moment when nothing—not vengeance, not victory, not freedom itself—seemed out of reach. "I take it the plan's back on?" he said.

"Unless you've got something better to do this afternoon," said Hogan. "London _is_ nice this time of year."

"I beg to differ," said LeBeau. "It is gray all year."

"I never was much for sightseeing," Carter said.

Kinch nodded fiercely. "What do we do first?"

Hogan shoved his hand in his pocket, touched steel. "I think we need to double back to Newkirk's place," he said. "If he was supposed to clear anything suspicious out of Kay's apartment, I'm willing to bet that someone was supposed to clear the same sort of thing out of his. And the fact that we found this stuff means that they haven't, yet, or if they did, they didn't do such a hot job. There might be something very interesting hidden in that apartment, and whoever killed him won't want us to find it."

"Well, maybe, but what if there isn't?" asked Kinch, always the levelheaded one. "For that matter, so what if there is? We already know he was a spy, so even if there are hidden codebooks or a radio built into his toaster or whatever, the killer won't care if we see it. None of that would help us identify him."

"Oh, there will be something to identify him," said Hogan, and the grin widened. "We'll make sure of it."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Stalag 13, 1944

They had been drinking, that was probably the simplest explanation for it all. It had been a good night, a _triumphant_ night, and celebrating with a little nip of Barracks Eight's finest vintage—specially brewed from whatever ingredients they could scrounge, crafted with indecent haste by hamhanded amateurs, and cellar aged for nearly two weeks—had seemed in order.

It didn't explain everything, of course; it really had been only a little nip. By necessity. It tasted like paint thinner going down and it didn't improve any on the way back up. Besides, drinking more than a few ounces of the stuff could easily be fatal, and the hangover would make you wish that it had been. And then, once you'd gotten past all of that, there was the Colonel to face. It was bad enough that the man could pack the equivalent of a week in the cooler into three angry sentences; the reproachful look and the disappointed sigh afterwards felt like a thorough seeing-to from the Gestapo. Stalag 13 was in no way, shape, or form teetotalitarian, but they'd turned moderation into an exact science.

But there's something about the combination of a late night and an empty glass that leads to serious conversations, the sort you wouldn't dream about having in the morning, and, indeed, often the sort of conversations that, the next morning, you hoped had only been a dream.

That particular night, the subject had wound its way towards that perennial favorite, 'how the hell did I get myself into this?' Hogan had long since gone to bed and, considerately, had taken his eagles with him; they were less congenial company than he was, especially when the guest list expanded past the core team. Olsen, the lightweight, had been the first to fall asleep; LeBeau and Baker had spent some time decorating his face with elaborate patterns drawn in greasy soot from the inside of the stove, and then, content with a job well done, had gone off to dream happily of the chaos that would no doubt ensue at roll call the next morning. Kinch, no fool, had waited until both artists were safely snoring and then followed suit. Leaving Carter and Newkirk to their own devices.

It was so late that it was early. Carter had been rambling on for some time about how a really big explosion, if considered in the correct light, was more constructive than destructive. Newkirk, relaxed and tolerant, just let the nattering flow around him in a soothing stream of babble. He considered the merits of one more smoke before hitting the sack; decided against it, just in time for Carter to run out of chemical philosophy.

"So I guess that's what _I_ like best about our setup here. But, hey, what about you?" Carter said. It had never occurred to him to ask before, and, frankly, if not for the tongue-loosening effects of the late hour and everything that went with it, he probably wouldn't have thought to ask it then. "You were already on the team before I got here. Why did you decide to join up?"

Those same tongue-looseners, or maybe just Carter's guileless interest, prompted Newkirk to give the straight answer that wild horses probably couldn't have dragged out of him under ordinary circumstances. He smiled, just a bit, and leaned back in his chair. "Well, there were quite a few reasons, including the sheer pleasure of hitting back at the damned Krauts, but I suppose… I suppose the selfish reason is that I signed on because the Colonel treated me as though I was worth something. I admit it; I liked that."

Carter bristled. "Boy! Of course you are! You've gotten us out of more jams than I could count, and I don't know what we'd do without you."

"Not what I meant, Andrew. Mind you, it's true enough as far as it goes, and no false modesty about it. I'm useful. On a good day with the wind at my back, I'm right bloody _miraculous_. Of course he liked what I could do. But what I really meant was that he acted like _I_ was worth something. Me. Not what he could get out of me. There's a difference."

"Oh." Carter thought about that. "I see what you're talking about."

"Yeah, I thought you might." Newkirk smiled reminiscently. "Anyhow, I reckoned that anyone who could make a load of bollocks like _that_ sound sincere would be a natural at leading the Krauts down the old primrose path. And I was right about that, wasn't I?"

"Yeah, he can really—wait a minute!" Carter sputtered as the first part of that sentence made it past the happy little clouds of moonlight and moonshine currently engulfing most of his brain. "What do you mean, 'make it sound sincere?' Of course it was sincere!"

Newkirk gave him an odd look. "What are you getting all worked up over? I've got exactly two selling points. I can get locks open under pressure, and I can keep my mouth shut under duress. My personality was never part of the equation."

"That's not true at all!" Carter's voice scaled up a bit. How come, when Newkirk was giving Carter a hard time about whatever had happened to cross his mind at that particular moment, it was funny? Now, when he was only giving _himself_ a hard time, in that awful matter-of-fact voice as though he were reciting the multiplication table, Carter wasn't sure whether he wanted to shout at him or go off somewhere private to cry. This was wrong, this was all wrong.

Newkirk shrugged. "Facts are facts, Andrew; I'm in _this_ prison for the same reasons I'd be in any other. Here and now, it's an asset and an honor. But I'm not pretending to be any more than what I am."

"I thought what you were was my friend," Carter said, with a painful dignity.

"…And that, if anything, is an even greater asset and honor," Newkirk finally said, and stood up, obviously regretting having said anything in the first place. Barracks Eight had a lot to answer for. He continued, in something far closer to his usual tones, "Now, I'm for some kip, and you'd best do the same. Schultzie will be in here before we know it."

"Right," said Carter, more or less automatically, and climbed into his rack, not bothering to undress. Nights were getting colder all the time. Newkirk, he was perfectly well aware, had less than no intention of ever continuing that conversation, and would react quite badly if Carter even gave any sign of remembering that it had taken place at all.

But it had.

Carter stared at the slats of the upper bunk for a long time before he could fall asleep.

*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1959

There are certain unshakable laws of the universe. Dropped toast lands butter-side-down. Planning a picnic causes rainstorms. Wearing brand-new clothes attracts stains from foods you don't even remember eating. Cars only break down when you're in a tearing hurry. It's just how the world works, and no blame to anyone.

Then there are the misfortunes that pretty much anyone could have predicted, the ones that are so patently your own fault that you can't expect, and don't deserve, much sympathy. Speaking ill of someone will always get back to them, even on the off chance that they're _not_ standing right behind you. Giving a small child a whistle will always be its own punishment. And being too enthusiastic about a particularly good employee in the hearing of your supervisor will always leave a gap in your lineup.

Stephens looked through the incident reports. "Extraordinary," he finally said, in a mild voice.

"And then some," said Woodhull, somewhat smugly. "We didn't know the third fugitive was even _there._ We'd sent her after someone else entirely; after tracking him down, she took it on herself to trace his movements, his acquaintances—everything. She didn't move on her original target until she was certain that she'd run all his cronies to ground as well. It was a mopping-up exercise after that."

"It doesn't appear that much of an effort was made to capture him alive," Stephens said, still mildly.

"That was my call, actually," said Woodhull. "I'd run through a dozen scenarios; a live apprehension just wasn't practical. It would have been a bloodbath, and he wasn't worth it."

"Mmm. Perhaps not. It's still a hard order to give. Or receive."

"She wasn't terribly happy about it. But she follows orders. And logistically, it really was better than risking the rest of the men."

Stephens had his own opinion on that. "I'd like to meet this paragon of yours," he said.

Woodhull, who was not stupid, gave Stephens a jaundiced look. "And to think I laughed when you stole Neil Donnelly from Maplehurst. The poor man was nearly apoplectic."

"If it helps, don't think of it as _stealing_ ," said Stephens. "I certainly never do. Try thinking of it as rearranging, or reorganizing, or something like that."

"And when someone rearranges _your_ best man out from under your nose, I hope you'll remember that philosophical air of yours," said Woodhull, bowing to the inevitable with good grace. "Serves me right for telling you about her in the first place, I suppose."

"Not at all, dear fellow," Stephens said cheerfully. "I've been paying close attention to your unit ever since you began racking up such an impressive record. Scouting the terrain, as it were."

"More like 'casing the joint,' I'd say."

"That _is_ the only efficient way to plan a robbery."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: LeBeau is wrong. London isn't gray _all_ the time, and it's quite nice even when it is.


	29. Chapter 29

London, 1969

The heroes had scarcely been at the apartment long enough to take off their jackets when Hogan held up a hand for quiet.

They froze, listened to the tiny clink of metal on metal. Kinch, closest to the door, looked at Hogan, who nodded minutely. Kinch jerked the door open before whoever it was could finish picking the lock.

Kay, framed in the doorway, didn't so much as turn a hair. "Hello again," she said brazenly. "I expected you'd be here."

"Why?" asked Carter. "None of _us_ expected to be here until about half an hour ago."

She shrugged. "You had his emergency stash, which meant you found his bug-out box, which meant you already had access to the flat. And you were thrown out of the office, it's too early for the pubs to be open, no hotel is ever entirely secure, and I didn't think you'd be in the mood to go strolling in the park. Where else would you go? This seemed the most logical place to find you."

"And why were you looking for us?" LeBeau asked.

"Because I need your help. Or possibly vice versa," she said. "I need to find who's responsible for this. I've heard enough about you chaps to be sure you're planning something. Whatever it is, I want in. I'll do anything you say, but I want in."

"Again, why us?" Hogan asked. "We've all been out of the game for decades."

"Because one, and possibly more, of my teammates is probably a killer. Until I know which, I can't trust any of them. That doesn't leave me with too many other options."

"It's always nice to be appreciated," said Kinch, sotto voce.

"I don't know about you, but _I_ sure feel wanted," said Carter.

"Poorly phrased on my part. Apologies. But Penny trusted you, and I trusted him," she said. "And you need answers as much as I do."

"That's all very nice as far as it goes, but it still leaves the question of whether we can trust you," said Hogan.

"You can't, that's half the problem," she said. "You don't know me from the proverbial hole in the wall. But you don't have too many options, either. Donnelly told me outright that he planned to use you for bait."

"And the fact that you are telling us this does not speak highly of your capacity for loyalty," LeBeau said.

She shrugged. "The last time I spoke with Moore, he told me that I was chasing ghosts, that there was no enemy to find. He was wrong. He also told me that the paranoia would do more damage than any mole ever could. That we'd be tearing one another to bits with suspicion. He was right. I'd trust any one of them with my life. Even now," she said. "But I don't dare trust them with anyone else's. Including—no. _Especially_ yours."

"Which is probably, word for word, what any of the others would say about you," Kinch pointed out.

"Undoubtedly so," she said. "In fact, if Moore was right about a few other things, the others are probably mulling over that possibility even as we speak."

"What other things?" asked Carter.

"All the reasons why, if this was a detective novel, I'd turn out to be the villain. I hate to admit it, but even I can see the logic."

"Are you?" The words had all the playful geniality of a thrown knife.

"No." Her voice didn't waver, her gaze was frank and sincere, and her demeanor shouted honesty. Exactly the way any deep-cover agent would have said it. That was the problem with anyone trained as she had been, Hogan thought. Sincerity and the illusion of sincerity looked exactly the same. "But if you don't believe it, and Moore didn't think anyone would, I won't hold it against you."

"Big of you," Hogan said.

"Isn't it just," she said. "If it comes to that, we both know for a fact that you had access to a gun last night; I'm taking just as much of a chance trusting you as the other way around."

"Hey! _We're_ not murderers," Carter said hotly, and swallowed the second half of that sentence.

"…Good for you," she said flatly, after a long moment.

"Sounds like you're kind of backed into a corner, aren't you? If we _don't_ help you find your culprit, what then?" asked Kinch.

"I don't know," she said. "What I do know is that waiting to see who dies next isn't acceptable."

"Sounds less like you don't trust your pals and more like they don't trust you," said Carter.

"No one trusts anyone, just now." She adjusted her left shirt sleeve, in a tell Newkirk would have seen from a mile off, and cleared her throat. "Look, if you decide at any point that I'm dirty, you have my express permission to put a bullet in my skull. Okay?"

LeBeau frowned. "Exactly what do you want, _Cherie_?"

She thought about it for a second. What she _wanted_ was to walk into the office tomorrow and find out that none of it had ever happened, that the last week had been nothing more than a bad dream. Some of her friends said they wanted justice, some wanted vengeance, some just wanted the killings to stop. She wanted those things, too, of course, but she couldn't have what—or, rather, _who_ — she really wanted and she knew it. Not ever again.

"I want what Penny would have wanted," she said. And that was true, too. "In the long run, the only thing that really matters is stopping this lunatic, whoever it is. A few dead spies are _nothing_ compared to the sort of information he might try to sell next. Not on my watch."

"That's very heroic," Hogan said. His tone made it clear that wasn't a compliment.

"Hardly," she said. "It's my job. And since my job is about all I have left, by God, I'm going to do it or die in the attempt."

Hogan heard the unspoken _preferably both_ , and his voice was much gentler, this time. "Why did you _really_ come here, Kay? You were looking for something. But it wasn't us, and don't even try to tell me it was."

She actually smiled a little. It was sadder than tears ever could have been. "Where else would _I_ go?" she said quietly.

It didn't escape anyone's notice that she hadn't actually answered the question.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

East Germany, 1969

Right, then. He was quite possibly the most wanted man in East Krautland just at the moment, and if he wasn't, his passenger might well be. There was an as-yet-unidentified traitor poised to wreak havoc on the Free World for an as-yet-unknown reason. Lange had every intention of killing him the instant he stopped being useful. And to put the tin cupola on it, he had absolutely no idea how he was going to get out of the country, with or without Lange. The usual channels were not an option. Which meant that, so far as Lange was concerned, he'd already stopped being useful. Just bloody wonderful.

Newkirk took stock. On a purely physical level, he needed food, water, some basic first aid, ten hours of sleep, and a cigarette, not necessarily in that order. He wasn't terribly optimistic about getting any of them, but even without them, he was fairly sure he could hoodwink his body into cooperating for just a little bit longer; he'd done it before, in situations far worse… er, just as bad… well, pretty damned unpleasant, anyway, and, God willing, he'd have plenty of chances to do it again.

Something about that sentence didn't seem quite right, but he lacked the energy to parse it out just then. He put it on the list of Things To Worry About Later, If There Is A Later, directly underneath such items as Communism, pea soupers, Petra's idiot boyfriend, the wretched things Americans did to the English language, the sun eventually burning out, and why those talentless imbeciles from Liverpool were still so bloody popular.

What was the next insoluble problem he needed to grapple with? Well, they needed fresh clothes; his were irreparably filthy, torn, and redolent of Eau de Dungeon, and Lange's were… simply speaking, they were a Stasi uniform. And if ever there was a way to blend into a crowd and vanish, wearing that uniform was not it. They needed to ditch this easily-identifiable car and steal a better one. They needed to find a bolthole. They needed to make contact with someone who could get them across the border. They needed _time_.

…When had they become a 'they'? He gave himself a mental shake. There was no 'they,' not this time around. There was a captor and a prisoner. Which was which was somewhat debatable at the moment, but that was what they were. That was _all_ they were. He didn't have a partner with him; not this time. If he wanted his back watched, he was going to have to do it himself. There was no one he could trust as a partner just at the moment, anyway. Any one of them could be his betrayer. He was better off alone. Always had been. There had been a time he'd known that better than his own name.

Whatever his name really was.

…Escaping. He was concentrating on escaping. He'd slipped in and out of East Germany any number of times over the years, but it had never been this… irregular. Everything had always been planned out and arranged beforehand, and even when the plans had gone down the bog, as plans are wont to do, he'd had some sort of starting place from which to improvise. Not this time.

He couldn't exactly walk up to any of his usual contacts and get out of the country that way. He didn't know how many of them had already been compromised. He didn't know if any of them was the compromiser, as opposed to the compromisee. He didn't know if approaching them would get them caught; there was still the distinct possibility that Lange had set up a fake escape solely to learn where he'd go, and to whom. It had been far too easy. It might have been luck, or fate, or the Hand of God, but he didn't much believe in any of those things, and he certainly wasn't about to depend on them.

"This is your fault, you know," Lange said in a calm, distant voice. "All of it. If it wasn't for you and your filthy kennelmates, none of this ever would have happened."

Newkirk spared him a quick, incredulous glance. "Mind spelling that out for me a bit? It wasn't _my_ chums shooting at us back there."

"If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have been there in the first place." Lange smiled tightly. "My own fault. Shouldn't have stopped halfway back in 1941. I didn't want to stop, you know. I wanted to watch the guard cut you to ribbons."

Newkirk was in no mood for a trip down Memory Lane, and especially not that part of the road. "Fine. You sit there and think about all the murders you wish you'd committed. Do it quietly, all right?"

"If I'd finished you, I'd never have lost command," Lange continued. "It was you, you and those mongrels you called friends. And that bastard Hogan. Don't think I don't know it."

Newkirk couldn't quite suppress a faint smile. That part was actually true. Hogan _had_ engineered Lange's downfall. But Hogan would never have been sent to Stalag 13 without Stephens' recommendation. And Stephens had only sent him to Stalag 13 because of the men of Barracks Two, and, more specifically, because of one very audacious plan courtesy of a certain Corporal Peter Newkirk.

"If not for you, I wouldn't have been sent to the Russian front. If I hadn't been sent to the Russian front, I wouldn't have had to do what I did. Broke myself back down to lieutenant," Lange said. "And after the war, I got stuck _here._ A glorified constable."

"Crying shame, that," said Newkirk, entirely unmoved by the sad story.

"I deserved better," said Lange. "I should have gotten better. I was supposed to have a better life than this."

"Uh-huh."

"I _am_ better than this."

"Right. Master race and all. I keep forgetting."

"I shouldn't have had to become Albert Strauss," Lange said. "It's your fault. I _liked_ being Oberst Lange, and you took that away from me. If I had killed you when I should have, you'd never have had the chance to destroy me."

Newkirk tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He didn't feel sorry for Lange. Maybe he should have, maybe a better man would have, but he didn't. Lange did not deserve his pity, and if he thought he was ever going to get it, he was in for a very rude awakening.

But Newkirk was rattled, nonetheless. He knew pretty much everything there was to know about having to leave your real identity behind. About becoming someone else. About purchasing your survival at the cost of the life you'd expected to live or the person you'd wanted to be. He understood what Lange must have gone through, and he didn't like the fact that he understood. He didn't want to have anything in common with the man who'd scarred him for life, and in more ways than one.

But he did. God help them both, he did.

A man named Lange had died in the Russian wilderness, abandoning home and family. A man named Newkirk had died in an English prison, abandoned _by_ home and family. But a man named Selden had rebuilt his life, reclaimed those connections. For whatever reason, a man named Strauss didn't seem to have been able to do that. Would it have made any difference? Probably not; he'd been a monster well before any of it happened. But there was no way of knowing for sure. It might have.

Lange fell silent, and Newkirk was glad of it.

He pulled the car into a quiet side street and parked it. He opened the door. "Right," he said, getting out. "They'll be looking for this rust heap; we're going to have to go on foot for a while."

Lange groaned.

"Oh, shut up," Newkirk said, irritated and harsh. "If walking a few miles is such a hardship, you can stay here and wait for your Stasi chums to catch up with you for all I care."

Lange snorted. "Might have to," he said, and looked down at his abdomen.

Newkirk looked, too. There was a dark, ominous stain on Lange's shirt, and it was spreading quickly. His eyes widened. Seemed the escape hadn't been as easy as that, after all.

He didn't even have to pull back the man's shirt to know that he'd been gut-shot, and that his chances were slim to none. And he didn't even have to look up at Lange's grim face to know that he knew it, too.

Lange lifted the hand holding the gun, aimed it point-blank at Newkirk. "You're still getting me out of here," he said.

"You're mad. And you're a goner," said Newkirk. "Give up."

"Never. Get me out of here or we both die in this filthy alley," Lange rasped, and cocked the gun. "Do it, and I might even tell you the name of your traitor."

Newkirk bit his lip, then nodded. "I know I'm going to regret this," he told no one in particular.

Life is a strange, strange thing. In Newkirk's wildest nightmares he would never have imagined himself slinging Lange's arm over his shoulder and helping the other man to his feet. Helping him walk, then run.

"You don't get to die yet, you bastard," he muttered. "When you tell me what I want to know… _then_ you can die as soon as you like. But not yet. You hear me? Not bloody well yet!"

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Lange's complaint that Hogan cost him his command- and Newkirk's smug recollection of how it had all come about- are a reference to a previous story of mine. (Traduttore, Traditore.) Newkirk gave you all the information you really need for this story; reading the earlier one is not necessary. Although I'd never discourage anyone who wants to do so. :)


	30. Chapter 30

London, 1959

Stephens had built a team that was the envy of the entire intelligence service, and it was only partially because of his habit of shamelessly poaching operatives from anywhere and anyone he pleased. He had an almost uncanny gift for seeing potential in the unlikeliest places—and people—imaginable, and he was usually right.

He'd been fascinated by Woodhull's sudden burst of wild success. It hadn't taken him a great deal of time to pinpoint the reason for it, and even less time to know what he wanted to do about it. He'd discussed the matter with several of his superiors; the consensus was that, while tracking down war criminals was both necessary and satisfying, there were more immediate dangers in the world, and far better uses to which Woodhull's young hunter could be put. Kay's transfer had been a fait accompli well before she knew it was even a possibility.

"I had a few questions about that last mission of yours," Stephens said without prelude. She was an unprepossessing specimen; slight and wiry, with sharp features that were not even remotely improved by her tightly braided hair and drab wardrobe. She made herself invisible in the same way he did, he thought, amused.

"Yes, sir," she said politely, and he could see at a glance that she was wondering who he was, and what any of this was about. Woodhull, at Stephens' request, hadn't told her anything except that she was to answer any and all questions as fully as possible, even the classified bits. Especially the classified bits, as a matter of fact. "I did submit a full report, sir; was there something I left out?"

"I saw the report," Stephens said. "It detailed the facts of the mission quite nicely. What I'm interested in are your _opinions_ on the mission."

She nodded, still confused. "Yes sir. I was… honored to be part of it," she said, fairly sure that wasn't what he wanted to hear. "All three of the men in question had evaded capture for almost fifteen years. It was a privilege to see to it that they answered for what they did."

"Answered? To whom?" Stephens said sharply. "To the law? To God? Or to you?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "All of them, I suppose. They would have seen an Aryan as a worthy opponent, but me? Having a _Volljude_ snap on the cuffs was insult to injury. I won't deny that I took some personal satisfaction from that."

"I see. But you didn't snap cuffs on all of them, did you?"

"No, sir," she said.

"It doesn't seem that there was even an attempt at a live apprehension. If you'll pardon the phrase, you went right for the throat." He lifted a disapproving eyebrow. "Care to explain?"

"It wasn't my call, sir," she said. "I argued against the strike."

"So I see. What was your reasoning for that?"

"That just killing him was letting him off too easily," she said. "I wanted him to have to stand in a courtroom and try to justify himself, and to _fail_. If he died, I wanted it to be because his entire society had decided he didn't deserve to live, and told him so. Legally. I know what that feels like. And I wanted him to know, too."

"So it was about revenge," Stephens said.

"No. Justice," she corrected him.

Stephens sniffed. "Leaving that aside, for now, I see that you did carry out the strike. Alone."

"I did, sir," she said. "The idea was to minimize potential casualties. A stealth attack was deemed less risky than a frontal assault. And if I failed, they could always regroup and try again. Better to lose one than four. Less chance of collateral damage, too."

Stephens picked up a sheet of paper he didn't need to consult. "Seems you used a garrote."

"I did, sir."

"A fairly intimate method, that. Up close and personal. You really did go right for the throat," Stephens noted. "What was your reasoning?"

"Guns are bulky and noisy. And a length of cord is easier to hide, easier to dispose of, easier to explain if someone _does_ find it on you, and much harder to trace."

"It didn't have anything to do with the pleasure of personally choking the life out of a Nazi?"

"I didn't find it pleasurable. Sir," she said, with icy courtesy. "I did what needed to be done."

"I see. Just following orders," Stephens said, insinuatingly.

She got, if anything, colder. "I suppose so. One might argue that there is _some_ minor difference between executing a war criminal and murdering thousands of innocents, but I don't claim any moral superiority to the man I killed."

"Care to expand on that?"

"There are people the world is better off without. He was one of them. Making that evaluation, and acting on it, means that I am, too. I've never pretended otherwise."

"Then why did you agree to the assignment?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "So that somebody else wouldn't have to. I _did_ have the best chances and the sharpest skills. And I can at least be trusted to know that what I'm doing is objectively wrong. Necessary, perhaps, and probably beneficial in the long run, but that's still not the same as right. Or good."

"'Who fights monsters must take care not to become one,' is that it?"

"'For when you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes back at you,'" she capped the quotation. "Yes. I hope I haven't. But I can't say for sure."

Stephens, troubled, thought about that for a moment. It wasn't that he wanted a bloodthirsty zealot on his hands, and he would have been concerned if she _hadn't_ thought through the moral ambiguities, but that sounded almost self-destructive. "And if someone decides it's necessary—or maybe even right—to come for you some day?"

She lifted her chin a fraction, proudly. "Depends who it is, I suppose. Nazis like him? They're welcome to _try_."

Stephens had an eye for potential. He had looked at a Luftstalag and seen an opportunity to shift the tides of a war. He had looked at a fast-talking American flyboy and seen a strategist for the ages. He had looked at an abrasive Cockney thief and seen a man who would storm the gates of heaven or hell to help a friend. Now he looked at a haunted Jewish survivor and saw…

Saw that he was exactly the wrong person to show her the way forward. She had potential, all right. Two different potentials, that was the trouble. He could turn her into the perfect assassin, the perfect weapon, and if she'd answered differently, he might have done just that. But that was all he could do.

All _he_ could do.

"I never did introduce myself, did I?" he said. "Frightfully rude of me. Let's start over, shall we? My name is Gerald Stephens, and I'd like to talk to you about transferring to my unit."

Her eyes widened slightly. She recognized the name, no question; but then, everyone in the agency did. And she'd doubtlessly heard quite a bit about him, and about his near-legendary team, much of it creatively exaggerated or outright fictional. It was quite unlikely, bordering on impossible, that she'd have said 'no' to the transfer even if the choice really had been hers to make.

"More specifically, I'd like to tell you a little about the agent I'd like to partner you with…" Stephens began.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Krakow, 1963

They were headed back to London for debriefing in the morning, and it wasn't a moment too soon for either of them. It had been a mission for the books, that was for sure. And their liason had been… colorful.

"I suppose it could have been worse," Newkirk conceded, as he stuffed his clothes into his suitcase with no particular care. He intended to burn them when he got back home, anyway; it wasn't as though he would ever be able to wear them again without remembering Krakow. And he planned to forget that such a place even existed.

"Oh? Mind telling me how?" asked Kay, who wasn't exactly running out to buy souvenirs of the city, either.

"Anya," Newkirk said, with loathing. "She was a ruddy nightmare to work with, but she did have one thing going for her."

"She was pretty," Kay guessed, with no rancor.

"No. She wasn't Marya," Newkirk said. "Looked a bit like her, sounded a lot like her… for a second, when we first met up, I thought it _was_ her, and I started looking about me for either an escape route or a loaded gun."

Kay snickered. She'd heard a few Marya stories. "Assuming you'd found the gun, who did you intend it for? Her or you?"

"I hadn't thought that far ahead; whichever seemed surest, I suppose. Either way, I probably would have shot you first, just to make sure she couldn't get at you."

"Too kind," she said.

"You never met her," Newkirk groused. "It would've been a mercy kill. Every time that bird showed her face, I figured it was curtains, and a quick double-tap was more than I ever dared to hope for."

"At least you didn't have to worry that I'd fall madly in love with her the way your friend Louis did," Kay said.

"Or, at any rate, madly in lust, like the Colonel," Newkirk agreed. "I never did figure out what any of them saw in her. If the idea was just to commit suicide, there were easier ways."

"Easier, maybe. But probably not as much fun," Kay said. "There's a reason the _femme fatale_ turns up in so many books and films and such."

"And if she'd had the courtesy to stay safely inside a book or a film, I'd've liked her better," said Newkirk. "As it was, she was a bleeding menace."

"But very good at her job, from what you've told me about her," said Kay. "And to be fair, Anya was, too. Not denying that if I never run into her again, it'll be too soon, but she _was_ good."

"Not as good as all that," said Newkirk. "And this is no job for a girl, anyway."

Kay blinked. Slowly, giving him every chance to redeem himself, she said, "…I beg your pardon?"

Newkirk scowled. "Oh, come off it. I didn't mean you and you know it. I was talking about _girls_."

Her eyebrows climbing for her hairline, she said nothing. Very loudly. Newkirk stumbled to a halt before he could dig himself in any deeper. Explaining that he thought of her as 'one of the guys' he rejected immediately. While true, there seemed to be at least a slight chance that it might not be taken as a compliment. And she knew a lot of ways to express offense that didn't leave any marks.

After an endless moment of silent high dudgeon, she laughed aloud, unable to hold it in any longer. "Care to take a third try at it?"

"Not if I don't have to," Newkirk said, relieved. "Sorry, luv."

"Forgiven and forgotten," she said cheerfully.

He woke up the next morning with wisps of soft black hair tickling his nose and a warm body firmly spooned against his. Neither of them appeared to be wearing anything in the way of nightwear. Or anything else, for that matter.

 _Oh shit,_ he thought comprehensively. This sort of thing had never happened back at Stalag 13, or when he was working with Stephens or Donnelly.

He tried to reconstruct the previous evening. Packing, yes, he remembered that part, and then he'd made that stupid faux pas, and she'd laughed it off, and the conversation had gone elsewhere, and then an hour or so later she'd hiked up her skirt to remove the knife she had strapped to her thigh, which he'd seen her do at least a thousand times with as much interest as if it had been Carter, but that time, for no reason he could explain, he'd impulsively reached over and undone the little buckle for her, and then they were kissing, and then, well, his hands were already _right there_ , and then all of a sudden she wasn't 'one of the guys' anymore, and then his shirt was on the floor without bothering to undo any of the buttons, and then…

Yeah, 'oh shit' just about covered it.

Newkirk cringed inside when he thought about what had to happen next. This was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the first time he'd woken up somewhere he hadn't quite intended to be, but he had never been less than honest with any of his girlfriends about exactly what he could offer them, and he didn't intend to start now.

Short term romances, with nothing promised and nothing expected on either side. Genuine attraction, honest affection, mutual pleasure, and amicable partings when it had run its course. Not people he worked with every minute of what were often twenty-five hour days and eight-day weeks, in conditions that usually ranged from dismal to deadly. Not people he trusted with his life without thinking twice, and, more frightening yet, people who trusted him with theirs. Not people like Kay.

Half the time he was using one cover identity or another, and his girlfriends didn't even know his real name.

Of course, if it came to that, Kay didn't, either.

He could tell the precise moment she woke up. Half-asleep, she stretched a bit, noticed that the bed was a bit more crowded than it ought to have been, and froze for a second, probably going through an 'oh shit' checklist of her own. Then she rolled onto her side, propped herself up on an elbow and grinned at him. "Good morning, Jack," she said.

"Morning, Kay," he replied automatically.

She grinned wider, pure mischief in her face. "If you're worried that I wouldn't respect you in the morning… you needn't be."

"Glad to hear it," he said. "But Kay… last night. It was… It didn't mean anything to you, did it?"

She sat up, the grin fading. "Did you want it to?"

He shook his head. "It's just that we have to work together, so if... I didn't know if you thought that… well…"

She shrugged. "I thought it meant that you're a man, I'm a woman, and neither of us died yesterday. We could have, you know."

"Easily," he said, seizing on the excuse like a drowning man snatching at driftwood. "And you know how it is after that sort of thing; the adrenaline, and that…"

"Yes, and it was every bit as much my idea as yours. It's not 1902 anymore, and I'm not expecting Jack 'Girl-In-Every-Port' Selden to whip out an engagement ring, so breathe."

"Good, then. That's—" he paused as his brain caught up with his ears. "Wait. Do they _really_ call me that?"

"Maaaaybe."

"Meaning no?"

"Definitely meaning no. We're friends, Jack," she said quietly. "We're a team. And it was a good night. I liked it. I liked it a _lot_. But I didn't make the mistake of thinking it was… more than that."

He let out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. "Good. I—it _was_ a good night, one for the ages. But Kay, our friendship means more to me than… look, I just don't want anything to get in the way of that. I can't muck this up. I _can't_."

She leaned over and kissed him quickly on the cheek, then pulled back. Nothing promised, nothing expected. "You didn't. I'm still me, you're still you, nothing's changed, and nothing needs to." She smirked. "Pretend like we spent the night playing darts or something. Just two mates having a bit of fun before we head for home. That's all it was."

That was the right answer; the answer he'd hardly dared hope for. She understood. Romance was all well and good for people who didn't spend half their time getting shot at, but that wasn't either of them and never would be. And a romance gone sour wouldn't exactly make working together pleasant; hell, it would be just as uncomfortable for their teammates, who'd be stuck in the middle of it. No. Staying friends, keeping things as simple as they could manage, was the only smart way of playing it.

There was one small, painful twinge in the back of his mind, insisting that it didn't feel like the right answer at all; he stuffed it back into the shadowy recesses where he didn't have to hear it. He smiled at her, the open, unguarded smile that very few people ever saw. "I do like a nice game of darts."

"Don't we all," she replied, and smiled back. "Now, I'm not quite sure how my stockings ended up on the light fixture, but you're taller than I am. Get them down, please?"

*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Stephens was quoting Nietzsche's warning, of course. Stephens has spent most of his life fighting monsters and staring into the abyss; I imagine he has his share of sleepless nights where he wonders himself if he's already become one... and just didn't notice.


	31. Chapter 31

East Germany, 1969

 _You don't get to die yet, you bastard. Not yet. You don't get to die until you've told me what I need to know. You owe me that much, damn you. You're not dying on me, not yet._

Newkirk concentrated on variations of that, like a mantra, for the better part of half a mile. As Lange went from running to walking, and from walking to stumbling, leaning more and more heavily on Newkirk with every step.

Lange kept himself going for that half mile powered almost entirely by a mixture of sheer hatred and his own stubborn will to live. In a twisted sort of way, it was an impressive feat. But there's only so much bile any one human can hold, and no amount of spiteful resentment can compensate for a perforated intestine forever. When Lange's body decided that it had finally had enough and overruled his mind, it did so all at once. Lange's knees gave way beneath him, and only Newkirk's grip on his arm kept him from collapsing the rest of the way to the ground. Lange gasped in shock, a tiny, pained recognition that it really was all over. He hadn't quite believed it until that moment.

Newkirk sat him down, propped him up against some anonymous building. Then he hunkered down to Lange's level.

"Who?" he demanded. "Who was your mole? Tell me!"

Lange's eyes were beginning to come unfocused. "Should've… killed you," he rasped. He probably would have, too, but he no longer had the strength to raise the gun.

"We've established that! Who is it, Lange? Who?"

Lange found one last burst of energy, and he expended it in a malicious little sound, somewhere between a laugh and a leer. "You'll see…" he breathed.

Then he wasn't breathing.

Newkirk stared into the glazing eyes for a moment. Now it was his turn to catch his breath, unable to quite believe that it really was over.

Slowly, he stood up, took a few deep breaths, and tried to bring his jackhammering pulse back to something resembling normal. He walked away, one pace, then two, then stopped dead in his tracks, turned around, and stormed back to the body. It _wasn't_ over yet. He had something that still needed to be said.

He stared at Lange. "You," he said, almost incredulously. "You had me _horsewhipped_. You stripped me naked in front of the entire camp, you strung me up by my wrists like a side of meat, you lashed me within an inch of my life, and then you _sent me out_ on a bleeding _work detail_ every day for the next week! I couldn't so much as stand on my feet. I could barely stay _conscious_. Two of my mates had to sling my arms over their shoulders and more or less _drag_ me along. I couldn't work, and you knew it. But that was never the point, was it? All you cared about was that there I was, on your orders, more dead than alive, showing the rest of the lads the error of their ways."

He laughed bitterly. "Did you know that I still dream about it? That whenever my life starts going too well, all I have to do is lay my head on the pillow and I'm back there, tied to that damned pole, helpless, while your goons turn me into hamburger? Over and over and bloody-damned over again, night after night for thirty years? Well, guess what, you miserable streak of piss—you couldn't break me then, and you're not going to break me now. Not me, you're not; not _ever_."

He pushed himself upright, chest heaving as though he'd just run a mile. Saying all of that out loud _felt_ like running a mile. Over the years, people had asked about the scars—doctors and lovers and the like—but they'd all gotten the same answer; a wry shrug, the words 'What Geneva Convention?', and a firm change of subject. If really pressed, he might eventually give them the ten-words-or-less outline, but even that was only the story of what had happened to his body, nothing more intimate than that. The recurring dreams were one thing—he'd come to terms with _them_ , because it was that or go crackers—but when he was awake, when he was the one calling the shots, he'd done his best not to even _think_ it. With any luck, he might never have to say any of it aloud again. But it was true, all of it.

Especially that last bit.

He took one last deep breath, got himself back under control. He wasn't out of the woods yet, not by a long chalk, so emotional breakdowns would just have to wait for a better time. There was still a traitor to catch, and there was still a pack of bloodhounds at his heels, and things were probably going to get worse before they got better. There was nothing he could do about Lange except hope that no one found the body until he, Newkirk, was sufficiently far away. There was nothing he could do about a lot of things.

Including the past.

No, there was nothing he could do about any of it. There was no changing the past. All he could do now—all he had _ever_ been able to do—was try to see to it that there just might be a possibility of a chance at a future. Nothing new there.

Yes. When there's nothing to be done, you might as well do it. Someone had said that, a long time ago, and it was true. Two can do nothing easier than one, he'd said in reply. He spent approximately half a second wishing that… someone… was there beside him. Then, horrified at himself, he quashed that thought and decided that he was actually _grateful_ that no one else was in this mess with him, and that even if he wasn't, he ought to be.

He walked out of the alley with the quick, casual saunter that he'd honed to perfection over the years. He left the body where it was, although he did take Lange's gun, wallet and identification. He hesitated for a moment, then took his uniform jacket, too, folding it neatly over his arm, blood and insignia hidden in the folds, for disposal in a suitably distant trash can. Better a John Doe in the morgue than a Stasi officer. Marginally better for him, anyway; he neither knew nor cared whether it would make any real difference to the corpse, although he suspected not, and the local constabulary was probably in for a very long night. The ruse wouldn't hold up for long, but it didn't have to. He just needed to disappear before it did.

He didn't run; running was suspicious. Running made people notice you. Made them chase you. Made them wonder, and/or investigate, what it was you were running _from_. And the sight of dead bodies nearly always made people excitable and unwilling to listen to reason; he owed it to everyone, himself not least, to spare them that trauma for as long as he could. So no running. He walked. Just another anonymous man going somewhere uninteresting, nothing anyone would ever observe or recall.

Nothing remarkable at all. He just wouldn't think about the fact that he'd have to go to sleep sometime, and that he knew who would be waiting for him when he did. But that was later, if he survived long enough for there to _be_ a later; it was a problem for that night.

That night, and the one after that, and the one after that, like enough.

Nothing new there.

*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

Hogan put a comforting hand on Kay's shoulder. "You really did care about him, didn't you?" he said softly.

She looked up at him, and nodded, once. "How could I have helped caring?" she said.

"You picked the wrong people to ask," he said. "Come on. Sit down for a minute, you look like you haven't slept in a week."

"Barely," she admitted, and sat down, but didn't relax. She leaned forward, tense and focused. "Does this mean that you're willing to trust me?"

"Well, to a point, anyway. I don't think you're about to pull out a gun and stage four more suicides," he said.

She flinched infinitesimally. "No. That was… something I wish I hadn't had to see."

Carter looked sympathetic. "It's never easy to lose a friend."

"No, and the way it was done… it was meant to be worse than just killing him. Pen— Newkirk was at least allowed to die in the line of duty. Moore was meant to die looking like a traitor. He'd've been horrified." She forced the faint smile back onto her face. "He wasn't all that good at the personal end of things, at least until you really got to know him, but he was very proud of his professional reputation."

"I'm sure he was much nicer under normal circumstances," Carter said.

"Was he really? Sorry to mention it, but I thought I detected a little tension between you and Moore," Kinch said.

"We had our arguments," she said immediately. If she resented what was now quite obviously an interrogation, complete with good cop/bad cop tactics, she hid it well. "Show me a team that claims otherwise, and I'll show you a pack of liars. We were friends. I don't know what you saw, but just now… you're not seeing any of us at our best."

"How did he get along with Newkirk?" Kinch persisted.

"Moore loved him," she said simply. "We all did."

"I wonder, though… something about the way he looked at you. It almost looked like jealousy," Kinch said.

"Oh. It was," she said. "Well, no. Not quite jealousy, really. Wistful longing for what wasn't going to happen, maybe."

The heroes traded looks. "Jealousy… or even longing… has driven men to extremes before this," LeBeau pointed out. "Might he really have been the one who betrayed Newkirk in hopes that you might turn to him in your grief?"

She stared at him, as if trying to figure out what language he was speaking, because the words made no sense in this one. "That's not possible," she said after a moment. "No."

"Why isn't it possible?" Hogan jumped on that one. If it were true, then maybe, just maybe, the scene in the office was nothing more than what it seemed to be— a contrite traitor's penance, and an end to the whole matter. "It's hardly a new phenomenon."

She shook her head. "No. No, you're mistaken. You've got entirely the wrong end of the stick. It wasn't like that."

"Oh, no? What was it like?"

"Other way around. Moore wasn't jealous of Newkirk because he was with me," she said. "He was jealous of _me_ … because I was with Newkirk."

As that sank in, LeBeau's fledgling theory officially went down in flames, but he took one last swing at it. "And that did not cause tension?" he asked. "Might it not have driven him to suicide after all?"

"I suppose it's possible," she conceded. "I very much doubt it."

Hogan changed tack. In his kindest, warmest tones, he said, "No, of course not. I'm sorry, Kay. It wasn't fair of us to ask those questions, and I hope it wasn't too upsetting."

"I'm all right," she said. That might not have been her _first_ lie of the day, Hogan thought, but it was the least convincing by a country mile. He made up his mind.

"It's human nature to want… reasons for things like this," he said. "We're all thrashing around looking for answers, but the truth is that we're just as much in the dark as you are. I wish it wasn't so, but wishing won't change anything. I'm sorry. I wish I could help you, Kay, but I can't."

"…What?"

"There's nothing I can do. I can't 'let you in' on our plans, because there _are_ no plans. We're not up to anything, and we've all been out of the game so long that we'd be more a hindrance than a help. We're not getting involved."

She looked utterly bereft. "You're not? But you're… you're the Unsung Heroes. Penny always said that you could… That you're…"

"We're not heroes anymore," Hogan said. "We're just four old soldiers who came to say goodbye to an old friend. This is beyond us."

"Oh," she said. With some visible effort, her demeanor shifted back to utter composure. "Then I hope you can forgive me for the intrusion, and try to forget the impression I must have made. I truly am sorry, gentlemen." She searched for something else to say, didn't find it, and stood up. "I'd best be off."

"Where are you going?" LeBeau asked.

"Back to work," she said, her hand already on the doorknob. "I still have a traitor to find."

Without needing to be told, Kinch and Carter went to the windows as soon as the door shut behind her. The moment stretched.

"There she goes," Kinch said, after approximately the correct amount of time a trip down the staircase should have taken. "She's heading down the street."

"Yeah, that's her all right," Carter confirmed. "Going, going… gone."

"Good. Well, gents?" asked Hogan. "Opinions?"

"Something's off about her," Kinch said immediately. "I don't know what, but she's setting off every alarm I've got."

"She was too quick to tell us that she's suspicious, I thought," Carter offered. "It was like reverse psychology."

"That's true," Hogan said. "As I recall, Newkirk used to be rather vocal about how untrustworthy he was."

Kinch and Carter chuckled a little at that; LeBeau didn't.

"LeBeau? What did you think?" Hogan asked.

"She kept looking at the bookcase, _Colonel_. As though looking for something, or looking to see if _we_ had found something." LeBeau shook his head. "She knew about the box Pierre kept hidden among his books; where there is one, there may be more."

Carter looked troubled. "You did say that someone would come here looking for secrets… and she said flat out that she was looking for something."

Hogan nodded. "Yeah. I know."

Kinch winced. "Berlin Betty, Greta, now Kay… Newkirk really did know how to pick 'em," he said.

"We don't know that for sure, yet," Carter said. "We don't know anything for sure."

"No, we don't, but we will," Hogan said. "This didn't go the way she expected it would. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't get it. She's upset. Upset people make mistakes. If she—"

There was a firm rap on the door. The heroes looked at each other; they didn't know who might be standing there, but they did know that they probably weren't going to like it. Hogan's face hardened into full-alert mode, and nodded. "Get the door, LeBeau," he said. "I'll be right behind you. Kinch, Carter, either side."

LeBeau waited until the others had gotten into position, then opened the door just as whoever it was knocked a second time, a bit harder. It sounded considerably less patient; the third 'knock' would probably be with a battering ram.

Four sturdy MPs were standing there, in essentially the same flanking formation as the heroes. The one in front fixed a steely eye on LeBeau.

"Monsieur Louis LeBeau?" he asked, in a tone that made it clear that it was not really a question.

" _Oui_ ," LeBeau said. "I am LeBeau."

The MP nodded sharply. "And Mr. James Kinchloe, Mr. Andrew Carter, and General Robert Hogan."

"The question is, do you know which is which?" Carter said brightly, before he even knew he was going to say it. He wondered, later, if it was Newkirk tapping him on the shoulder, reminding him that _someone_ needed to make a wisecrack, for the dual purposes of wrong-footing the bad guys and lifting the spirits of the good ones.

The MP ignored him. "Am I addressing Hogan, Kinchloe, Carter, and LeBeau?"

Hogan stepped forward. "You know our names; may we know yours?"

"I'm afraid that I have to ask you gentlemen to come with us," he said. "Immediately, please."

"What? Why?" LeBeau said. "We have done nothing."

"That's beside the point. My orders are to collect the four of you, and I would much rather not need to resort to force to do so. Will you come quietly?"

The four of them sized up the situation, the odds, and the likely outcome. Four on four, true enough, but the MPs were younger, probably stronger, certainly better armed, better prepared, and were blocking the only escape route. The heroes had, quite simply, no chance.

Hogan gave the only answer possible. "Like hell we will."


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

East Germany, 1969

There was enough money in Lange's wallet to purchase comparatively fresh clothing from a comparatively respectable-looking secondhand shop, with enough left over to buy himself the first comparatively decent meal he'd had in days.

That took care of two problems, and once he'd devoured everything but the serviette, he felt ready to grapple with the others. He wrapped his hands around one last cup of coffee, lit a cigarette from a half-empty pack that one of the men he'd passed along the way would eventually assume he'd carelessly lost, and thought about them.

Unless he learned how to fly without a plane sometime in the next hour, he was going to need somewhere to stay for a few days while he healed up and the heat died down, which was probably going to mean borrowing another wallet or two from a better-heeled neighborhood than this one. There _were_ ways out of the country, but most of them were zealously guarded by very dedicated people who were not going to be easily convinced of his bona fides… or, for that matter, vice versa.

Someone had betrayed him once, and until he found out who, he couldn't trust anyone. He had to assume that his unidentified enemy would know, or would soon find out, that he wasn't actually dead, and he had no intention of handing himself back over to anyone who might be tempted to take a second try at it. He had to be careful. Be cagey.

He wanted to go home so badly he could barely stand it.

Except that he couldn't go home. Not yet. Not until he figured out what was going on. If he couldn't trust any of his contacts here in Germany, how much less could he trust his colleagues back in London? He couldn't. He couldn't trust anyone. Not anyone. Millions of people in Europe and every single one of them was potentially trying to kill him.

…No. No, that wasn't true, either. He could think of _one_ person he was certain he could trust. There was still someone who could, and would, help him find the way out of Hell; he had no doubt of that. And anyway, if he was wrong about that person, then he might just as well die and save himself some trouble.

He nodded to himself, picturing the small frame, the puckish grin, the dark eyes that always saw so much more than he ever intended to let show… yes. He knew where he needed to go.

All he had to do was figure out how to get there. Piece of cake, eh? All he had to do was sneak out of an insane Communist hellhole, over a couple of international borders, and across a healthy chunk of Europe without anyone finding out that he was alive.

God, he was so damned tired of trying to get out of Germany.

He sighed, then stood up, tossed the last of Lange's money on the table, and squared his shoulders. Once more into the breach; maybe one last time paid for all. Maybe after this final escape he could finally go home.

Maybe.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

The MP nodded, as though he'd expected that answer. He probably had.

"General Hogan," he said patiently. "I admire your spirit, but this is foolishness. Be reasonable. Look at your situation. Do you honestly think that you have any chance of escaping us?"

Hogan shrugged. "Who can say? All I know is that a lot of Nazis said the same thing to me, at one time or another."

"To all of us," said Kinch.

Carter looked embarrassed. "Well… to be fair, we never _did_ escape."

Newkirk was not there to roll his eyes disapprovingly; the other three did it for him. The MP stifled a smile. "Be that as it may, sir," he said. "There's really no need for any of this nonsense. We have a common goal."

"And just what might that be?" asked Hogan.

"Keeping you gentlemen alive," he said, slightly waspishly. "There is reason to believe that you have been targeted for assassination. We have been detailed to prevent that from happening. I assumed that you would _also_ prefer to avoid any such thing…?"

Hogan quirked an eyebrow. "Well, when you put it like _that_ …"

"Hard to argue with that one," Kinch conceded.

"Yeah. Boy— dying's the _last_ thing I plan to do," Carter said, still feeling Newkirk's hand on his mental shoulder. Break the tension. Lighten the mood.

LeBeau even found a smile for Carter. Then, serious again, he turned back to the MPs. "You say you are here to protect us. How are we to believe you? Whoever sent you, whatever you were told… all of it could be nothing more than a trap."

The man nodded. "I was ordered to tell you this: How many miles to Babylon? My candle's out and cold. And the reply: One mustn't travel in the dark. The light is bought and sold."

Hogan looked aside, with the intense glare that meant he was thinking fast.

"Does that mean something to you, sir?" asked Kinch. "It must be code; that's not how the rhyme usually goes."

"Not usually, no," Hogan said. "That's an emergency code only three people ever knew, and one of them has been dead for years."

"What does it mean, _Colonel_?" asked LeBeau.

"It means we're going with them."

*.*.*.*.*.*

Stalag 13, 1943

Newkirk had been off-color for the better part of two days, and LeBeau didn't understand what could possibly be bothering him. The mission had been an unqualified success. The art was safe, the general neutralized. Why, then, the sour mood?

He opted for the frontal assault, which didn't often work, but it was usually worth trying anyway.

"What are you angry about this time?"

"Who's angry?" Newkirk said.

"You are. You have been in a foul mood for days."

"I'm in prison, mate. Last I checked, lighthearted gaiety isn't required by the Geneva Convention."

LeBeau rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. Now tell me the real problem."

"Haven't got one. So far as I'm concerned, all is merry as a marriage bell. If that's all, m'sieur LeBeau?" With that, Newkirk turned to go.

LeBeau caught him by the arm. "Stop it. No games, _mon ami_. What is wrong?"

"All right. You really want to know why I'm a bit brassed off? I'll tell you," Newkirk said, pulling his arm free. "And remember that you _asked_ for this. I am angry. With you. I resent that we had to risk our bloody necks to protect a bunch of meaningless trinkets. _Again_. This isn't the first time you went off the deep end about some old bit of gimcrackery."

"Gimcrackery! Those are the treasures of _la belle France!_ They are priceless!"

"So what? Ask any fence, and he'll tell you. A thing's only worth what someone else is willing to pay for it, and that means 'priceless' isn't so very far from 'worthless.' The plain fact of the case is that you got yourself tied up in such knots over a bunch of old rubbish that we all came this close to a firing squad. And for what? A few paintings and a gold snuffbox?"

"You would not be so blasé about it if we were protecting _England's_ cultural treasures from being stolen by the Boche."

"I'd be overjoyed if that was all they wanted. Hell, if I thought that emptying the art galleries would make the bastards stop bombing London into rubble every night, I'd hand them the keys myself. Half of the trinkets on display in the British Museum were stolen from other countries in the first place. They probably hate us for it, too, every bit as much as you hate the Krauts."

LeBeau scowled. "That is not the point."

"Then what _is_ the point? Explain it to me, mate. I really want to understand. Your life's your own, but what's so bleeding important about a bunch of stupid paintings that you felt the need to throw ours away, too?"

"The Boche cannot simply take whatever they want," said LeBeau. "What else are we fighting for, if not that?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought we were fighting for things that actually mattered. Tell me to lay down my life for King and country, and I may not be thrilled with the idea, but you know I'll go willingly. Tell me I've got to die to save some moldy old canvases and I'm going to be just a bit miffed. Call me conceited, but I do like to pretend that, in the great scheme of things, I'm worth at least as much as an ivory fan."

"There is more to life than simple survival. Art is a symbol. It reminds us to strive for perfection. It says that there is still beauty in the world."

"Your forger chum knocked off a perfect copy of Burkhalter's stolen painting without breaking a sweat. Seems to me that it adds just as much beauty to the world as the original, and if something happened to it, who cares? He could paint another."

"It is not the same. And in this case, it is more than simply the fact of the painting; it is the message behind it. It says that we will not meekly lie down and let ourselves be violated. What is ours is ours!"

"Very poetic. But they're just _things_ , Louie. Get your priorities in order! Things aren't worth as much as people!"

"I suppose I should not be surprised that a barbarian sees no value in preserving our culture," LeBeau snapped. "Or that a thief does not object to robbery. Like calls to like!"

Newkirk's eyes went cold. "Yes. I daresay it does. Guilty as charged, mate. Whatever else you can say about a thief, though, he knows what's valuable, what's not, and what's the difference. I did what I did back then because keeping Mavis warm and fed mattered to me. More than some toff's pocket change mattered to him, and a _hell_ of a lot more than my life has ever mattered to anyone." He stubbed out his cigarette. Hard. "And I do what I do now because this war's killing innocents, and _they_ matter. Fripperies that do nothing but sit in a museum collecting dust don't. They just don't."

" _Non._ That is where you are wrong. They _do_ matter. They are our pride, our sense of who we are as a people. Perhaps it puts no bread on the table, but there are other kinds of hunger. Having our past stolen would destroy us as surely as a bomb."

"Right. I'm sure they're telling themselves that being blitzed is all worthwhile so long as we've still got a few Rembrandts stashed away in a cave somewhere. Who bleeding _cares?_ "

"I do! The Boche have taken everything else from us; they cannot have this! Perhaps it is only a symbol, but symbols matter!"

"Louie, the Underground squirreled it all away. It's _gone_. If we win the war, sure, they'll get it all back. But they would have, anyway, whether that meant dragging it out of the cave or confiscating it back from the Krauts. And if we lose, we're all going to have bigger problems. We risked everything— everything!— and all for a symbol that's never going to mean anything to anyone except _you_. I suppose I can't grudge you the satisfaction, and I hope it helped you every bit as much as you'd hoped it would, but you need to get some bloody perspective before you go and try it a _third_ time. Don't you get it? Everyone's luck runs out eventually. When it happens to us, I want it to be for something that matters. Who would you rather see burning— Mona Lisa, or Carter?"

"You still do not understand," LeBeau said. "You _refuse_ to understand. Have you no soul at all? These are not merely pretty things. They are the things that make us French. The things that make us _human_. If you cannot see why that is valuable, why it is worth dying for, I do not know how else to explain it. What is wrong with you? Is there _nothing_ you care about?"

He regretted the words the instant he said them, but by then it was far too late. Newkirk blinked a few times, then gave him a long, appraising look, as if he'd never seen him before. As if he was trying to understand how LeBeau could even ask the question. His voice got very quiet.

"You mean aside from you? Aside from Kinch or Andrew? Aside from the Colonel? Aside from Mavis?" He shook his head. "Then no. Nothing at all, mate. People are important. Things are replaceable. But, then again, what the hell do I know? I'm just a barbarian and a thief. And, apparently, a soulless one, at that. Forget I said anything." He shrugged, spun on his heel and sauntered away, leaving LeBeau staring after him.

He'd gone too far, and he knew it.

The two of them argued about everything and anything; it was nothing. Half game, half distraction from camp life. And they had fought, really fought, more than once. They had taken out their frustrations on one another, because venting anger is so much simpler than admitting fear. They had even been genuinely angry with one another, lashing out with the sort of bitter fury that only love can either provoke… or survive.

This wasn't like that.

They smoothed things over, of course. They had neither the time nor the energy to waste on anything deeper than their usual run of meaningless quarrels, and neither of them wanted to prolong the matter. They traded apologies, sought and received forgiveness, and never returned to the topic.

A third opportunity to rescue stolen art never presented itself before the war finally ended. LeBeau was fervently grateful for that; he didn't know what he would have done if given the chance. Art mattered, he still believed that, but were the tiny, symbolic, moral victories really as important as he had felt they were? Or was it, as Newkirk had bitterly insisted, a tacit assumption that a man's life really was worth less than a few square feet of painted canvas?

And if that truly was what they were saying… were they right?

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: The series had two episodes about stolen art—'The Collector General,' which involved a truckload of assorted art, including the gold snuffbox and ivory fan Newkirk complains about, and 'Art For Hogan's Sake,' which involves a single stolen painting—twice stolen, actually; once by Burkhalter and then again by LeBeau—which they take to Paris to have copied. The two episodes are unrelated and from different seasons, but according to the wiki's internal timeline, they seem to have taken place almost simultaneously, in December of '43. If that's correct, they would barely have had a chance to catch their breath between art-rescue missions that, it must be said, had no particular relevance to winning the war. That might well have rankled, even with someone a great deal more even-tempered than Newkirk ever was.


	33. Chapter 33

London, 1969

Kay's flat was full of suspicious articles; it would have been suspicious if it hadn't been. Stephens, who had expected no less, found weapons hidden in every room; he ignored them. He also found her emergency stash, somewhat sacrilegiously hidden in the hollow base of a brass Sabbath candlestick—money, a lockpick, a cyanide tablet, and a single small safety-deposit key.

What he didn't find in the apartment was anything that linked her to Germany.

 _Donnelly_ was the one who found that.

*.*.*.*.*

East Germany, 1969

The soi-disant hotel wasn't too many steps above what he'd've called a doss-house, and fairly short steps at that, but it had a bed with presumably clean sheets and a door that locked from the _inside_ , and that alone made it feel like the Savoy. He managed to get his shoes off before he fell asleep. Barely.

In the morning… well, early afternoon, he cleaned himself up as best he could and took stock. He examined and catalogued a fairly extensive collection of abrasions, cuts, and multicolored bruises, but eventually decided that it all felt worse than it looked, and looked worse than it was, and could therefore be ignored, at least for the present. That pretty much took care of the last of the things on his list of prerequisites; there was nothing left to distract him from the main question.

Now what?

There _were_ ways out of the country, he knew. He couldn't trust any of the people who usually manned them, and even if he could have, he didn't want to be seen by any of them. And it wasn't like they had anything even close to flawless success records, anyway.

There was _one_ escape route that he knew of that didn't have anyone manning it. A tunnel, under the wall and through the death strip around it. It had been abandoned, years ago. Not because it had been discovered—it hadn't, at least not so far as he was aware—it was simply so unsafe that they had stopped trying to salvage it, and left it to collapse whenever and however it chose. Hadn't even bothered filling it in, because no one wanted to risk going into the bleeding thing even long enough to set charges.

If he was willing to push his luck just a bit further, buck the odds one last time, he just might make it back to England before the mole could do any more damage than he already had. He just might make it home. The key word being 'might.'

This was so many different varieties of bad idea that he didn't have the time or the energy to enumerate them all.

He looked around the squalid little room and sighed. On the one hand, he could crawl into yet another unsafe tunnel out of Germany and probably get shot. On the other hand, he could contact one or more of his associates for help… and probably get shot. Or else, on yet another hand, he could stay _here_. And probably get shot.

He glanced at his watch—well, it was his watch _now_ , anyway—and grimaced. He didn't have much time in which to consider the matter; he couldn't afford another night in East Berlin, either financially or otherwise. Check-out was in an hour. That meant that he needed to be on his way out of the city in ninety minutes at the latest.

He needed to be on the way home. In ninety minutes. At the latest.

And, looking on the bright side of things, if he _did_ get killed on the way home, he'd never have to know for certain which of his friends had betrayed him.

*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

Hogan took one last look around, as if to make certain that he hadn't forgotten anything, that he _wouldn't_ forget, and then followed the MPs into the corridor. He was fairly sure he wouldn't be returning.

The other three, falling straight back into the follow-the-colonel's-lead-figure-out-the-details-later-and-hope-to-God-he-knows-what-he's-doing tactics that had gotten them through the war, filed after him, although LeBeau, bringing up the rear, hesitated for a moment, his hand poised to slide a cookbook off the shelf, before changing his mind.

There were two large black cars parked outside. Three of the MPs climbed into the second of them; their spokesman went to the driver's door and motioned for the others to get in the back.

"Because _that_ doesn't look ominous at all," Kinch muttered under his breath, obeying.

"Just like the old days," said LeBeau.

"It brings back memories, that's for sure," said Hogan.

"Yeah," said Carter. "It made me nervous _then_ , too."

"I _am_ sorry for all the cloak and dagger business," a cultured voice said as they all sat down. "But I didn't really see much of an alternative."

"Hi, Robbie," said Hogan. "Long time no see."

"Indeed, Hogan. I do wish it had been under better circumstances." Roberts looked around at them all. "I offer you all my condolences."

"Group Captain Roberts?" Kinch asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Preventing a disaster before it starts, mostly," he said. "Stephens is a brilliant operative, and I don't often need to overrule him, but every once in a while he goes a bit too far. This is one of those times."

"You're his boss?" asked Carter.

"In a sense," Roberts said. "Let's just say we both work for the same person."

"So you're the ninth man," Hogan said.

"Yes," he said. "And C, of course, is the tenth. If you're going to accuse me, I suppose now is the time."

"What good would that do?" said Kinch.

"Not much, but at least we could get it over with and clear the air. I'm not the traitor. And believe me when I tell you that I've been rigorously examined to prove it."

"Does that mean you're going to help us find out who is?" asked Carter.

"I wish it did," he said. "I'm sorry, chaps, but I'm afraid that what it actually means is that I'm getting you out of the country. Immediately. Your luggage is already in the boot."

"You're _deporting_ us?" Kinch said, incredulous.

"You can't do that!" said Carter, insulted. "We didn't do anything wrong!"

"I can. And I am," he said. "But no, you're not being deported, precisely. You're taking a slightly earlier flight home than you'd originally planned, that's all. We're getting you chaps out of the line of fire. This isn't negotiable."

"There are only two reasons we would be targeted," said Hogan. "Either we've gotten too close to finding the real mole, or he thinks we did, which comes to the same thing. Or else… this wasn't politics; it was personal. This was about assassinating _Newkirk_ , consequences be damned. And you think the killer would go after his friends, just for good measure."

"It's a possibility we're exploring," said Roberts, poker faced. "Moore's death could be put down to the same two possibilities. But in either case, it's an internal matter, albeit one that the entire intelligence community is probably monitoring. I can't risk the potential consequences of letting you involve yourselves."

"Too many people would start asking questions," Hogan agreed.

"Frankly, even bringing you here in the first place was a mistake. What was John Selden to you, or you to him, to bring you not just halfway across the world but into MI6 headquarters? It's a natural question to ask, and the Unsung Heroes operation is still classified."

"Nonsense. Pierre and I have been meeting regularly for years. No one thought anything of it," LeBeau objected.

"A great many people thought about it, I assure you. He came very close to being forbidden to contact any of you after 'Newkirk' was officially declared dead."

"What changed their minds?" Kinch asked.

Roberts smiled crookedly. "He pitched a fit the likes of which I've _still_ never seen. Stephens came in on his side, quietly making it understood that in all fairness, if we wanted Selden on the payroll—which we did—some accommodations would have to be made. Stalag 13's records now show that Corporal John Selden spent some three years there; naturally, he struck up friendships with some of his fellow prisoners. On that basis, your continued acquaintanceship was grudgingly permitted."

LeBeau thought about that, thought about the day Newkirk had just turned up on his doorstep, after a year and a half of unanswered letters and increasingly frightening silence. He'd looked terrible—too thin, too weary, too worn—and neither of them had known what to say for a moment.

Newkirk had offered no explanations for the previous eighteen months. Without so much as a 'How have you been?' he'd simply announced that Peter Newkirk's body had washed up on the banks of the Thames the previous day, and that he hadn't wanted LeBeau to have to hear about it from a stranger.

LeBeau hadn't asked for details. He'd already known some of what had been happening, and now he could guess much of the rest. He had just nodded his understanding and let the subject drop; from there, to Newkirk's obvious relief, they'd simply picked up their friendship where they'd left off. LeBeau had gotten used to the new name, even if he'd declined to use it, and he'd regretted Newkirk's choice—or, rather, lack of choice—in occupation, while admitting that he was admirably suited to it. LeBeau's oldest son was named 'Pierre;' he and his siblings were fearsomely spoiled by their 'Oncle Jacques,' and there the matter rested. He hadn't known he'd had to fight for even that much.

"Which is also why Stephens was allowed to notify me at all," said Hogan; Roberts nodded assent.

"You would have just… left us to wonder what happened? Forever?" asked Carter.

Roberts looked at Hogan. "I'd like to think not. I consider you a good friend, Hogan, and we all know I owe you my life. For that alone, I would have told you… when it was deemed safe to do so. I don't know when that might have been."

"But you do know that it isn't now," said Kinch.

"No," said Roberts. "It isn't now." He visibly wrestled with himself for a moment, then continued. "I _will_ tell you that Stephens thinks he's identified the culprit, and expects confirmation very shortly."

"Who?" asked Carter. "Who is it?"

"I can't tell you that," Roberts said. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. But I can't. Nor can I risk your safety. We have some reason to believe that you've already been targeted."

"So it is her," said Kinch. "That's why she came looking for us. That's it, isn't it?"

"I really can't say at this time," said Roberts, as they pulled up at Oceanic Terminal. "Again, my sincere condolences. He was a good man."

"Wait," said LeBeau. "Please, Roberts. We have not all been together for several years, and who knows when we will next all be in the same place. Let us drink at least one toast to our friend before you send us away. Another half hour cannot make such a difference."

Roberts hesitated, then nodded to the driver, who let the engine idle. "There is time before your flights," he admitted. "And, in fact, there's a bar right inside the terminal itself. Your escorts will get you checked in, discreetly step aside while you say your goodbyes, and then get you on your respective planes."

Hogan snorted. "So not only are you kicking us out of the country, you're sending along babysitters to make sure we go?"

Roberts smiled. "Think of it as a tribute to your well-earned reputation for brilliant escapes. In my place, you'd do the same."

Hogan had to smile in return at that, caught. "You're right," he admitted. "I would."

"You would which? You would send along a guard, or you would stage a brilliant escape?"

"Both, probably."

*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1959

The young man was a clever, disciplined, and altogether promising young agent. This would not have been readily apparent to anyone seeing him for the first time that evening.

Newkirk grinned to himself. Office Christmas parties were not among his favorite ways of spending time, but sometimes they had their compensations. And watching Donnelly's instantaneous transition from polished young gent to lovesick schoolboy had been well worth the price of admission.

"Dierdre, luv, I'd like you to meet a colleague of mine," he said cheerfully. "This is the fellow I was telling you about. Neil Donnelly, meet Dierdre Quinn."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, looking modestly downwards and then up through her lashes at him; a maneuver she was well aware was nothing short of devastating.

Donnelly managed, on his second try, to say, "The pleasure is all mine, Miss Quinn." Then he ran out of words entirely.

Newkirk tried to catch Donnelly's eye, flicking his hand in the general direction of the dance floor as a delicate hint, but subtlety was a lost cause; Donnelly, poleaxed, was oblivious to everything and everyone but the girl. Newkirk took charge again.

"I need to step outside for a minute. Donnelly, why don't you and Dierdre, here, take a turn or two around the floor? I won't be long, and I promise you, he won't step on your feet, or he'll answer to me about it."

She laughed. Donnelly, spurred into action, cleared his throat. "I… that sounds grand. May I have this dance, Miss Quinn?"

She took his arm. "Only if you'll call me Dierdre," she said, and smiled at him. "Like all my friends do. I don't like dancing with strangers."

"Then by all means… let's be friends," he said, and swung her onto the floor. Newkirk grinned as he watched them.

The wedding announcements went out not quite a year later.

*.*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

Stephens, back at his desk, looked at the small sheaf of documents again, as if hoping that if he read them enough times, they would say something different. He looked up at Donnelly. "And you're _sure_ these are hers?" he asked, one last time.

The East German passport and identity papers were no surprise; everyone on the team had false passports for nearly every country in the atlas. The coded documents were harder to rationalize away. And the records of sizeable amounts of money transferred to a Swiss bank account under the name of 'Leslie Kane' were nothing short of damning.

Donnelly took a deep breath. "I think we have to ask _her_ about that," he said.

Stephens picked up the bank records again. "Kane," he said softly. "How apropos."

"Well… yes. It's always easier to take an alias that sounds something like your real name," Donnelly agreed numbly. "It makes it much more natural to respond automatically."

"I was thinking more of the Biblical Cain," Stephens corrected him. "The first murderer."

Donnelly nodded. "Am I my brother's keeper," he quoted. His eyes hardened. "And the answer is yes."

Stephens closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. "I want her brought in. Alive and unhurt; there's still a chance that this isn't what it looks like."

Donnelly gave him a sidelong glance. "Do you really believe that?"

Stephens turned away, but not before Donnelly got a good look at his expression. It gave him his answer.


	34. Chapter 34

London, 1969

Kay only spotted the carefully plainclothed men staking out her building because she'd had a feeling that they would be there. She slipped away before they could see her, with the hard-won skill of a lifetime.

Now what?

If looked at from a certain point of view—that is, the one where the object of the game was not getting caught—then going back to HQ was about the stupidest move conceivable, and it wasn't as if she didn't know it.

But if the object of the game was to find the real killer, then it was the _only_ move possible. Every minute they spent playing a demented game of hide-and-go-seek gave the traitor that much more time to get away, or, worse, to strike again. They had obviously decided that she was 'it,' they would spare no effort in running her to ground, and if they caught her, she would have no leverage at all. But if she turned herself in… there was at least the chance that they would listen when she denied it.

Not much of one, granted.

But even that didn't matter. If they were concentrating on chasing her, they wouldn't be paying any attention to anything else. He could, he _would_ , take advantage of their distraction; there was no way to predict what else he would do, except that it would be something terrible. She categorically refused to let that happen. Her entire job—her entire adult life—had revolved around making sure that sort of thing didn't happen, and she wasn't about to abandon it now. Tomorrow might well bring a coffin or a cage, but until then, she knew where her duty lay, and it didn't involve than saving herself at others' expense. She couldn't run.

Where would she go, anyway?

She turned around, began walking back to the office. She didn't hurry—or dawdle—on the way, but every once in a while she flicked her eyes upwards, admiring the way the buildings rose against the sky, the way the sun carved valleys of light through their shadows, enjoying the way the wind licked at her face. One last time.

*.*.*.*.*

Atlantic Ocean, 1969

Hogan sat in his seat and stared sightlessly out the window. The stewardess had brought him a drink, a service he planned on having her repeat at intervals until either they reached DC or the memory stopped hurting, whichever came first.

Roberts, and his small flock of babysitters, had found them a bar. It looked comparatively clean, that was one selling point. Now, if it turned out that there was a back door, as well…

"Looks good to me," he said. The five of them sat down at one table; the four MPs sat at the next one over, stolidly pretending that they weren't listening.

"What can I get you gents, then?" asked the server. Her accent was so painfully familiar that it took a moment for any of the heroes to separate out what she was saying from the way she was saying it.

Roberts ordered a round, and she scurried away to fetch it.

"How many miles to Babylon, huh?" Hogan said. "That was a long time ago. I can't believe you remembered."

"I'm not likely to forget something like that," said Roberts. "The way Sir Winston glared at me when he asked for the password sent chills up my spine. Just for a moment I forgot everything I'd ever known."

"Good thing you remembered in time," Hogan said. "We'd warned London what to expect. If the wrong Roberts got off that plane, he wouldn't have gotten too far."

Roberts ran a hand over his scarred forehead. "I'm just glad _you_ remembered it. I only had one set of nursery rhymes to contend with; you must had had dozens of them."

"Hundreds, probably." Hogan looked up at the waitress, and, from old habit, smiled at her. She blushed, then smiled back as she distributed the glasses.

Everyone took one, with no enthusiasm in any of their faces, and looked expectantly at Hogan. The 'parting glass' business was, at best, a stalling tactic, and possibly a diversion if he thought they could outflank the MPs, and they all knew it, but they were going through the motions, anyway. This was probably the closest thing to a funeral that Newkirk was going to get, and the occasion called for a few words.

Hogan looked down at the table and groped for something to say. The time-honored words they had all heard at a thousand other gravesites weren't going to cut it, not this time. Newkirk hadn't been a believer, Hogan knew that much, and if he was going to quote from the Bible anyway, he wasn't sure that reciting Ecclesiastes wouldn't be more of an insult than a comfort.

'To everything there is a season… A time to be born, and a time to die.' What did that even mean? Was there a time to be blown to bits in a meaningless spat between nations that seemed doomed to fight until Armageddon? A time to be stabbed in the back by a comrade?

'No greater love than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.' That one was no damned good either; not when those same friends had stood by and let it happen. Or caused it to happen.

"Amen; I say to you, today you will be in paradise." Maybe. The only person in the entire New Testament who had been personally promised a place in heaven, Hogan remembered from Sunday School, had been a dying thief. The quote might work for the occasion. Or maybe he should just get right to the point and count out thirty pieces of silver.

Hogan, with an effort, unclenched his fists. He was a man at home with words, with improvisation. He was used to being flippant, being glib, to telling lies that sounded true and telling truths in such a way that they sounded like lies. He wasn't used to being so completely at a loss.

Someone was speaking. It took Hogan a moment to realize that it was himself.

"Newkirk liked to play it cool, but when push came to shove, it was hard to miss the fact that he was one of the most passionate people I've ever known," he said. "He cared—deeply—about people. About what was right. About his country, his family… and his friends. And he would do anything to protect them. Anything. I should know. Because I asked him to do just about everything."

Hogan cleared his throat, went on. "I'm the one who asked him to stay in Germany. I'm the one who sent him out on a thousand different missions. I'm the one who landed him in the cooler too many times to count. I asked a lot of him." He took a deep breath. "We spent years doing the impossible. All of us. We were known for it. But he was the guy I leaned on when we needed to do the improbable, and he came through every time. No matter the cost. He was a hero, in every sense of the word."

And he could have stopped there— _should_ have stopped there, maybe. But he finished the thought, his voice a harsh rasp. "I'm even the one who asked him to commit treason."

No one said a word.

"Risk is one thing; we all understood, and accepted, that we could be asked to sacrifice our lives at any moment. But he sacrificed his integrity. His entire future. His goddamned _name._ And he did it without a word of reproach, then or later. Because I asked him to."

Kinch put a hand on his shoulder before he could go any further. With his other hand, he lifted his glass. "To Peter Newkirk," he said. "The bravest coward anyone ever saw. And the best friend anyone ever had."

"To Peter Newkirk," Carter echoed, and said something in Lakota. Judging by the rhythmic cadence, it was a ritual phrase of some sort. None of them understood the words. All of them understood the meaning.

"To Peter Newkirk," LeBeau whispered, his throat clogged with emotion.

The bartender approached their table, scowling. He, and several of the other customers, had obviously been listening. "Here, now. This is a respectable place," he said. "If you want to drink a toast to Nazis, then you can find somewhere else to do it."

"He's _not_ a—" Carter started, indignant; Roberts waved him to silence with a quick gesture.

"Terribly sorry for the confusion," he said smoothly. "Different chap entirely. Just an unfortunate coincidence, is all."

He didn't look mollified. "That's as may be. But I don't care to explain that to my other customers, and they don't care to mix with traitors. You'll leave now, and quietly, or you'll leave limping; the choice is yours."

Hogan looked around the table and shook his head minutely; he was suddenly too tired to fight. "We're leaving," he said bitterly. A publican wanted him gone. MI6 wanted him gone. Great Britain as a whole wanted him gone. It was more than time to go.

There was nothing left to save, anyway.

They left. Each of the MPs escorted one of them to their respective terminals, watched warily as they boarded; Hogan half expected them to board the planes with them, just to be certain that none of them bailed out over the Channel and made their way back to London.

Newkirk really was gone; he no longer had a plan of action to distract himself from that raw fact. Hogan closed his eyes against the pain. If he'd come to England looking for closure, he hadn't found it. If he'd been looking for absolution, he hadn't found that, either. All he'd found, really, was a book of much-annotated poetry, where late, late at night, on one page, entitled 'Epitaphs of the War', he'd read a couplet:

 _We were together since the War began._

 _He was my servant—and the better man._

He'd found a pen, and with the unsparing honesty of the bleak hours before dawn, he'd struck out the word 'servant' and written 'corporal' in its place. The rest of the sentiment needed no emendation.

*.*.*.*.*

London, 1969

She knew, without having to see it happen, that the guards would have hit the silent alarm as soon as they'd seen her approach the building, and she let herself be escorted to one of the windowless, secure conference rooms without even pretending to question the mumbled explanation of 'an emergency' from the men at the gates.

Her team was waiting there. So was a grim-faced MP.

"Hello, everyone. Did you find whatever you were looking for at my place?" she asked.

"We found enough," Donnelly said.

"Not possible," she said coolly. "And if you did, it's a frame-up job. Just like with Moore."

"I wish that were true," Stephens said.

"It _is_ ," she said. "I'll freely admit that I've got a rifle in the umbrella stand and strychnine in the medicine cabinet and all that. But I—"

"But you sold out to the East Germans and sent Selden to his death," he said. His voice caught. "How could you, Kay? How _could_ you?"

She shook her head, stunned. _Knowing_ that something unthinkable is coming never makes it any easier to believe when it arrives. The undisguised heartbreak in his voice shattered her composure. "You think _I_ … you really think that I betrayed you. Betrayed Jules. That I betrayed _Jack_. Me. You really think that?"

"You've left me no choice," Stephens said heavily. "I didn't want to believe it was you. I really didn't."

"This is insane. This is beyond insane; it's _stupid_. I had nothing to do with this, and if I could have prevented it— if I could have taken his place!— I would have. You have to know that!"

No one said anything.

"Where are you getting this? What proof could you possibly have? Is this based on _anything_ besides my German blood?"

"Spare us the dramatics," said Stephens. "It doesn't suit you. You didn't cover your tracks nearly as well as you thought you did."

"What tracks? You're not making any _sense_! Just listen to me for a minute!"

"You'll get your chance to explain yourself," said Donnelly. "You know how this works, Kay. It'll go easier for you if you give us the names of your contacts."

"I can't do that. I haven't got any names to give. I didn't do this. I _wouldn't_ do this. How do you not see that?" She looked around the room, searching for even the slightest bit of uncertainty in their faces, and not finding it. Shock gave way to panic.

"You don't want to do this," she said, desperately. "Please. You can't. You _can't!_ If you do, _more people will die!_ More of _you_ will die!"

Stephens stared her down. "Thank you for sharing that bit of information, Friemann. I suppose that's one more thing we can have a nice long chat about in the next few days—who it would have been, when and where and how you intended to do it… we'll have plenty to discuss, it seems."

"Why don't you just tell me that 'vee haf vays of makink you talk' and be done with it?" she said. "Stephens. Please. You _know_ me. You know what side I'm on, and why, and you know the kind of lengths I'm willing to go to for this team, this country… Stephens, _please_. Just think about what you're doing."

"I have," he said, and fell silent. The moment lengthened.

"I see. Tried, convicted, and condemned. Just like that," she said softly, her face expressionless. Then her lip curled upwards, in spite of herself, and she laughed, mocking and cruel. "Well, Jack, you _did_ say this would happen over your dead body. Looks like you were right about that much, at least."

"You treacherous little—" Donnelly snarled.

Stephens cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Enough. Friemann, if there's anything you'd care to say, now's the time."

She had been wide eyed and desperate, trying to talk her way out of the situation with distress clear in her face, in her voice. For an instant, there had been a terrible grief, but that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Now she was just coldly, bitterly defiant. It was hard to tell whether she had removed her mask, or donned one.

"'The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose,'" she quoted flatly, looking from one face to the next, all around the circle. Chesterton's 'Last Hero' again, of course. "'You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes.'"

"And which are we, then?" Stephens said.

"There's a difference?" she said. "I think I knew from the start that it had to come to this eventually. So. Am I going to hang myself in my cell, be knifed in a prison brawl, or, if we're going with the real classics, be shot trying to escape? Or will someone have to just fish me out of the Thames some morning, a victim of random street crime? Professional curiosity, you understand how it is."

"Why? Did you have a preference?" Stephens' voice was like ice.

She snorted contemptuously. "Surprise me. But whatever you decide, do it right. It should be like making love," she said. "Hard, slow, thorough, and I should be screaming myself mindless _well_ before you're finished with me. Take your vengeance, friends; Jack deserves that much. Avenge him, and enjoy it while you can… because by the time you realize the terrible mistake you've made, it'll probably be too late for any of us."

No one said anything.

Turning to the MP, she thrust out her hands imperiously and snapped, "Well? What are you waiting for? I have staircases to fall down."

She stared them all down, proud as Lucifer and just as damned, as he pinioned her arms behind her. Her composure cracked, just a bit, when the MP produced a second set of restraints with a slightly longer chain and hobbled her ankles, but she didn't back down. She never did. She never would.

Brewer cleared his throat. He sounded almost embarrassed as he said, "She's usually got at least two weapons on her. And lockpicks, too. You're going to want to be a bit careful."

"Not to mention all the other little toys she's got sewn into the seams of her clothes. Or braided into her hair," said Donnelly. He glared at her, equal parts disgust and disappointment. "You're going to want to be _more_ than a bit careful."

"Maybe, just to be on the safe side, you ought to shoot me here and now," she said, mock-helpfully.

"Don't tempt me," said Stephens. "Get her out of here."

The MP took her firmly by the arm and obeyed; she didn't resist. The faint jingle of chain as he led her down the corridor had no earthly right to be as loud as it seemed.


End file.
